


To Love You More

by PaleandBroodingsGirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: "off-screen" rape, Character Death, F/M, Teen Pregnancy, mention of miscarriage for minor character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 23:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 128,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19486003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaleandBroodingsGirl/pseuds/PaleandBroodingsGirl
Summary: Hermione sacrifices much to aid the Order based on the Art of Divination. What, you say? You read correctly; she has her own personal prophecy--a closely-guarded secret--in which the Dark Lord has a very vested interest. The debacle that was the Battle in the Department of Mysteries has serious repercussions. However, nothing turns out as expected. Someone(s) untrustworthy is pulling strings, Polyjuice falls into the wrong hands--with disastrous results--or is there just something in the water? Secrets and lies abound, playing havoc with even the strongest of loves and lives. Falling for the enemy was easy, but our favorite duo have a long way to go before learning how to 'love you more'.EWE? Romance. Intrigue. Angst. Slow-Burn Dramione, HG/DM, HG/other characters, NOT POLYFICrated M for adult themes and situations, but not for smut.Please heed the tags for triggers!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to "To Love You More"! It's going to be a loooong story, and i thank you for giving it a shot!  
> This is my idea of how Hermione and Draco could have, realistically, formed a loving relationship amidst the canon events created by the brilliant JKR.  
> 

-July 1996: The last day of 5th year  
Hermione Granger was slowly coming-to. She’d been in a potion-induced sleep, napping on an antique sofa in front of a fireplace. A small fire warmed and lit up the stone walled-and-floored room. She was barely-aware of whispering voices, but she was unable to identify the owners of them, the potion still fogging her brain’s frontal lobe, wherein was home to rational thought. She only was aware of snippets of the conversation:  
“….Yes, I performed the charm….” said a quiet voice.  
“….will not accept this….too headstrong….” argued another.  
“….perhaps she is not the….” suggested a timid voice.  
“….need to know immediately….” a voice said, speaking quietly but with much authority.  
“….poor little thing….”  
By the time Hermione was fully cognizant, there were only two other people in the room—the Headmaster her Head of House, Professor McGonagall—though she was certain she had heard more than two voices speaking while she was in her drug-induced state.  
Hermione had to focus intently to remember how and why she came to be in the Headmasters’ Office, why she had been having a kip on his settee—she felt mortified that she had fallen asleep in the Headmaster’s office!—and why he was now telling her that her “role in this war may be perhaps the most important of them all.”  
‘Oh, right,’ she thought, ‘Professor McGonagall had come to Gryffindor Tower to tell me that the Headmaster wanted to speak to me in his office, and she had escorted me here…now I remember everything….how could I forget?’

An hour earlier:

“Ah, Miss Granger, good to see you. Please, have a seat. Professor McGonagall, please have a seat as well,” the Headmaster had greeted the two witches as he sat down in his plush, high-backed chair across his desk from them. “I’m sorry to have disrupted your last day here, Miss Granger, as I’m sure you are busy making preparations to leave for the summer, but what I must discuss with you is a pressing matter.”  
Hermione’s surprise and apprehension about being called into the Headmaster’s Office had showed on her face by the slight furrow in her brow as she bit her bottom lip nervously.  
“Did I fail to complete a Prefect duty, Sir?”  
“Oh, no, my dear nothing like that,” Dumbledore had said with an amused look in his eyes. “No, Miss Granger, this is nothing relevant to school and everything relevant to fighting Voldemort.”  
‘Order business, then—but why now? Why just ME? WHY me? I’m not even of age yet so I haven’t been formally accepted into the Order.’  
“Miss Granger, I must hear from you: how committed are you to the Order?”  
Hermione was taken aback. “Sir?” she squeaked out hesitantly, looking at McGonagall in surprise. McGonagall wouldn’t meet her eye.  
“Are you fully aware of the ramifications of Voldemort’s success in accomplishing his agenda?” the headmaster asked quietly, but seriously.  
“I-I-of course, sir, I do,” she stammered, totally discombobulated from this surprising inquisition. “He is vile….pure evil in the flesh….and he will destroy the Wizarding world and the Muggle world if he is allowed power. He will rid the world of Muggles and Muggleborn witches and wizards without hesitation,” she said with conviction.  
Dumbledore had relaxed in his chair, bringing his hands up together to his chin, his elbows resting on his desk, and giving her a sad smile.  
“Very well. Then I will let you in on two secrets.”  
Dumbledore had then reminded her of the Prophecy Record (which Neville had destroyed accidently just a few weeks ago) regarding Harry and Voldemort. Dumbledore had then told Hermione the details of the Prophecy involving Harry; Harry himself had only just learned the details last night, according to the Headmaster.  
Dumbledore then told Hermione that she “also must play a part in the defeat of Voldemort.” Hermione had nodded, confused; she thought that Dumbledore already understood that she planned to fight alongside Harry and the Order. She’d thought, ‘Oh! He must be wanting to hear my personal reasons for deciding to fight with the Light!’  
“I will fight with everything I am, Sir. I, as a Muggleborn, will not let Harry and the Order fight for Muggles and Muggleborns without joining in that fight myself.”  
Dumbledore, smiling, had said, “I have, at times throughout the years, doubted the exactitude of the Sorting Hat, especially in its placement of you into Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw, but today, Miss Granger, I am certain you were sorted appropriately.”  
Hermione had blushed and beamed with pride. It was true that the Hat had indeed considered her at first for Ravenclaw House, but it had ultimately declared her a Gryffindor, and she had always been proud of her House.  
“However, your part in the fight may not be on the battlefield,” Dumbledore had added, causing Hermione’s expression to fade into a quizzical one.  
“There is another prophecy….which relates to you, you see,” he had said quietly, then pausing, waiting for her response.  
Predictably, Hermione had respectfully responded, “I do not believe in Divination, Sir. I believe we make our own fate.”  
Dumbledore had just nodded and waited for Hermione’s curious nature to overcome her unbelief and for her to ask about the prophecy. As no question was forthcoming, he had continued. “It is unfortunate that I cannot obtain the orb containing the Prophecy for your hearing….I know how much you appreciate empirical evidence,” he had said, his eyes twinkling, “but, because the orb was destroyed in the….fuss at the Ministry, it is impossible for me to do so, you see.”  
Hermione had winced at Dumbledore’s mention of the debacle in the Ministry’s Department of Mysteries; she was still healing, physically, from her wound inflicted upon her by Dolohov, and she and her friends and the Order were all still mourning the death of Sirius Black. After getting past the feeling of remorse for everything (she felt that she never should have let Harry charge in there in the first place, and now upon learning that she’d unknowingly destroyed her own supposed prophecy she was further remorseful) that had happened at the Ministry that washed over her at Dumbledore’s mention of the incident, she had begun to analyze the Headmaster’s words. Dumbledore, however, had interrupted her thoughts.  
“Miss Granger, the author of this prophecy related it to me years ago. I have the memory of it saved in my Memory Cupboard,” he had revealed, gesturing to a large glass cabinet containing hundreds of vials of white translucent liquid, “and I can use my pensieve to allow you to witness it, if you would like the empirical evidence over my word. But I assure you, Miss Granger, that my memory is still as good as ever on this subject.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes twinkled. Hermione had warily nodded out of politeness, and Dumbledore had continued.  
“The prophecy is thus: ‘The brightest of her age must birth a child, sired by her equal, before the end, or the three will be destroyed, and the dark will triumph.’ ”  
‘Why in the world is the most brilliant wizard in history applying this ridiculous Divination crap to me?’ Hermione had wondered exasperatedly. Then, she’d recalled how Harry once told her he had thought Dumbledore to be a very skilled Legilimens, and she’d immediately looked up into the Headmaster’s face, feeling ashamed.  
Dumbledore had just smiled at her and then had given her time for it all to sink in; he hadn’t had to wait long.  
“Sir,” she had questioned, timidly, “How do you know this prophecy refers to me?” She was already aware, of course, that she had been dubbed by some as ‘The Brightest Witch of Her Age.’ But a nickname can hardly be thought of as conclusive fact, she’d reasoned to herself.  
Dumbledore had given her a kind smile and, with a twinkle in his kind, blue eyes, had said, “My dear, I have known you to be the ‘Brightest of Your Age’ for many years now, and I am not the only professor at this school who agrees that that title belongs to you.”  
Hermione had blushed, again, and had looked at Professor McGonagall, who’d smiled at her proudly, nodding in agreement.  
Hermione had quickly recovered from her embarrassment and had said, rather skeptically, “I am to, then, uh…..have a baby……so that Voldemort can be defeated?” She’d looked dubiously at Dumbledore, who’d nodded.  
Her mind had then been inundated with thoughts swirling around inside of it. She’d had so many thoughts that she could hardly focus. Upon finally focusing on one portion of the prophecy—the timing of it—she began to run the math in her mind: I will graduate in two years….It takes nine months to grow a baby…. Can defeating Voldemort wait nearly three years?  
‘Of course it can’t!’ she’d berated herself. ‘The world as we know it will not survive if Voldemort is allowed over two and a half years to remain in it! Harry was almost killed by Voldemort just a few weeks ago! IF I were to act to bring about this prophecy, I should do it soon—the sooner the better….’  
At the thought, she had sat up straighter, her arms falling into her lap, and furrowed her brow while scrunching up her face as if she’d just bitten into a sour lemon.  
“Sir,” Hermione had said with forced politeness while she worked to right her face and keep her words appropriate. “I cannot be the one to do this. I am too young to have a baby. I don’t want to have a baby. I’ve never even….” She’d trailed off, blushing and looking down in her lap, before she revealed to the Headmaster and her Head of House that she was still a virgin.  
Dumbledore had seemed to understand where Hermione’s thoughts were. Dumbledore had then cleared his throat, acquiring Hermione’s attention, and sat up a bit straighter in his tall, regal, plush chair. His countenance at that point had been more earnest than Hermione had ever seen it.  
“The Order knows that the battle between those of us on the side of the Light and between Voldemort and his followers MUST be sooner rather than later. We would put it off, if we could, but the fact remains that Voldemort and his forces will attack whether we are prepared or not. Therefore....” his voice had then trailed off as he did something Hermione had never seen Dumbledore do while he was speaking: he closed his eyes briefly, swallowed hard, and allowed his gaze to rest on his desk.  
‘Clearly,’ Hermione had thought, ‘he is not happy about what he’s about to tell me….or he knows I won’t be happy about it, at least.’  
Dumbledore had looked back up and into Hermione’s eyes a second later, saying, “It is imperative that you allow this prophecy to come to fruition as soon as possible. In the interest of fulfilling this Prophecy, and thus defeating Voldemort, I urge you to be open to any….advances that may come your way.”  
Hermione had gaped at him; she couldn’t speak, and he had continued.  
“Fulfilling this Prophecy, Miss Granger, may require that you accept or initiate things you normally would not with young men whom you would normally not.”  
Hermione’s eyes had widened, but still she could not speak.  
“And, to put it quite plainly, my dear, you may just have to find a willing young man, or several, and allow the Prophecy to come to fruition.”  
Her shoulders tensed, making her head jerk forward toward Dumbledore, as she sprang up out of her comfortable winged-back chair, her palms of her hands smacking the edge of Dumbledore’s huge mahogany desk. “WHAT!?” she had yelled to (or, rather, screamed at) her Headmaster.

After that, Hermione recalled, she had worked herself into a frenzy, and Dumbledore had called for Madam Pomfrey to bring her a Calming Draught. That had been when she’d requested a small nap on the Headmaster’s settee.  
Now, sitting back in a chair next to Professor McGonagall and across from the Headmaster, she was in a much better frame of mind to continue the conversation. The Headmaster repeated the Prophecy for Hermione, and again gave her time to ruminate on it.  
The portion of it that bothered her the most was the timing. Have a baby—have INTERCOURSE—ASAP? Hermione sighed loudly; she had expected the answer she had received on this subject—after all, who wants to drag out a war?—but she was terribly dismayed about it. She certainly didn’t want to wait any longer than necessary to defeat Voldemort, for her best friend’s sake and her own as a Muggleborn and also for the millions of other innocent lives at stake. Even as she thought about all of this, she was still not convinced that she would allow this prophecy to come to fruition soon, if at all.  
“Sir, who are the ‘three’?” she began, feeling that it was best to start discussing the more palatable portions of the Prophecy before those that really upset her.  
“That would be you, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley.”  
Hermione felt deflated after that (and she didn’t understand how Dumbledore came to the conclusion of the ‘three’ being her and her two best friends, but she decided not to focus on the minor details). She sat composedly, her chin resting in her cupped hands, her elbows resting on her thighs, as she contemplated the rest of the wording of the Prophecy.  
Resuming her critical thinking of the Prophecy, she came to the last part to be discussed, frowning, still full of doubt.  
“Sir, who, then, would be my ‘equal’? All that seems logical in my mind is that he would be a Muggleborn, like myself, which considerably narrows down the possibilities, at least in my own year, but not throughout the school, let alone the whole of Wizarding England or the entire Wizarding world.….” she trailed off, lost in her own thoughts, again swirling around her heard.  
“Or, maybe,” Hermione then suggested hopefully after inhaling exuberantly, “my ‘equal’ is a Gryffindor, like me, or Harry or Ron—you know, one of ‘the three’ also referred to by the Prophecy?”  
She sounded desperate, she knew, but she realized that as awkward making a baby with Harry or Ron would be, making a baby with essentially a stranger would be tremendously worse. She looked to her Professors with hope clearly filling up her big brown eyes.  
A look of understanding had passed over Dumbledore’s face, but he’d said in a very morose tone, “I’m afraid that the ‘egual’ does not refer to Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley. While I do not know the identity of your ‘equal’ (if I did I would surely tell you, Miss Granger), I do know that it is not either of your best friends.”  
Hermione had lost all of the color in her cheeks at the Headmaster’s statement.  
“How?” she boldly asked, not even realizing how brazen she was being. “How do you know that?”  
McGonagall gasped and Dumbledore’s eyes widened for one split second at Hermione’s atypical impertinence. A look of sympathy returned to the Headmaster’s pale blue eyes just as quickly as it had departed, however.  
“I have pondered your questions myself, Miss Granger, many, many times, with many, many possibilities,” Dumbledore said, quietly. “The best that the foremost authorities on Prophecy and I can deduce is that ‘equal’ relates to your title as the ‘Brightest of Your Age.’ Mr. Neither Mr. Potter nor Mr. Weasley fill that requirement; nor do any of the other Weasleys, I’m afraid.”  
So no one I’m already comfortable with, then, Hermione thought bitterly.  
“But, Sir—I mean, excuse me, Sir, but—that doesn’t seem very specific or objective, I mean, it’s a matter of opinion, is it not? Or is there a wizard who has the title of the Brightest Wizard of the Age? For example, Fred and George Weasley, although extremely mischievous, are really quite brilliant, and Bill Weasley is a curse-breaker and was Head Boy, and Percy, too….” she again trailed off when Dumbledore merely shook his head at her, but Hermione, ever persistent and seeking answers, continued.  
“Is there only one possible candidate, or are there numerous candidates—because that would surely make this easier! How am I supposed to know with whom I am to, uh, you know,” she’d winced in embarrassment at having to discuss this with the Headmaster—or anyone, really—“um, have a baby? If even you don’t know, then how am I to possibly—”  
Dumbledore then interrupted her almost-frantic ramblings. “My dear, it is best to leave all of that to the mysterious art of Divination. What has been written in the stars will come to pass without our intervention if we just...let it unfold without hindering it…considering that ‘making our own fate,” he finished gently, but in a firm tone.  
Using my own words against me. Her patience with Divination had long run out, and although she had been trying to remain respectful to the man she had always admired and respected in the past, she’d lost control and had loudly scoffed out loud.  
If Dumbledore was surprised at Hermione’s audible frustration, he didn’t let on. 

\-----------------------

Hours after her meeting in the Headmaster’s Office, she could barely finishing packing her trunk. She was shocked that she would have a Prophecy of her own to fulfill! She was angry about the deadline of the Prophecy! She was ashamed at her insolent behavior to the Headmaster and Leader of the Order of the Phoenix. She was, however, thankful for the Calming Draught; goodness knows how much angrier she’d be now if she hadn’t been given one earlier! She was perplexed by something too; what accounted for the strange, warm, tingling she was feeling in her low abdomen?

\--------------------

-July 1996 - August 1996  
A few days into her summer holiday while her parents were working at their dental office, Hermione was back in Muggle London, walking the beautiful streets of Hampstead (where her family home is located). It was a hot and humid July day, so her wild, brown curls were larger and sticky around her face and neck, but her clothing choice allowed her to be as cool as possible; she was wearing a modest tank top with adorably cute and modest pleated shorts (the bottom hem just hitting her knees), and chunky sandals—her wand tucked away in her beaded, crossbody purse.  
She was taking a walk, trying to clear her head of her anxiety about the Prophecy. She wandered into one of her favorite music stores before really realizing where she was. The subconscious is quite amazing, she thought; music had always helped her relax.  
She happily strolled through the aisles of used and new CDs, choosing a few to listen to with headphones at the back of the store. Turning a corner, while looking through her CDs for her first selection, she almost ran into a tall, thin teenaged boy wearing a brown leather bomber-style jacket, baggy jeans, and a beanie. She uttered an apology, but the boy didn’t hear it as he had headphones on. She thought his choice of attire odd for July, but she moved next to the boy, where a pair of unused headphones was laying. As she prepared her selection for listening, Hermione noticed that the case laying on the counter in front of the boy was one of Celine Dion’s—the same album, in fact, to which she was preparing to listen.  
A guy who likes Celine Dion? Harry and Ron hate listening to my CDs of hers.  
Too curious, she chanced a quick glance up at him. He had his eyes closed, listening to his selection, and although many of his features were hidden, she saw enough to know to whom those features belonged: Draco Malfoy.  
Hermione could do nothing else but stare at him in bewilderment. Malfoy—in Muggle London—listening to Muggle music (Celine Dion, no less!)—wearing Muggle clothing (which, as she inspected further, was at the height of fashion, although out of season). What the heck??!!  
As she stood gaping at him, he opened his eyes and looked ahead of him and then, to her horror, he turned and looked around him, then right at Hermione. His eyebrows rose—or, more accurately, the beanie on his forehead moved upward. They stood staring at each other for three seconds before he turned his gaze away from her and continued listening to the CD.  
Hermione turned away, too, feeling her cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Hermione resumed listening to her selections. Her attempt to distract herself from the Prophecy was successful, but was not attributable to music (her brain was barely registering what she was hearing). Instead, Hermione’s mind was completely bewildered, trying to work out the oddness that was Malfoy for the next hour.  
After a while, she inconspicuously peeked over at Malfoy’s other CD choices; he had picked an old album by Richard Marx (a signer and pianist) and one by John Tesh (a pianist).  
This must be the ‘twilight zone’ my parents are always referencing when something completely crazy and unexplainable happens….  
The next week, Hermione was out by herself again in Hampstead, and in an attempt to avoid Malfoy, she steered clear of the particular street where they had had such a disconcerting meeting the week before. She passed by a music store on her way to return a book to the library when she looked into the store’s window and saw Malfoy—again! She stopped, crouched down, and held her library book over face, and then peeked her eyes up over the book. Malfoy was looking at sheet music. So perplexing….maybe a gift for his mother? She’s probably very ‘accomplished’ on some instrument or another, being a rich lady and having nothing else to do, Hermione surmised with a scoff.  
Hermione quickly turned her back to the window and scampered away to finish her errand, making a mental note to look for yet another music store at which to patronize, as there was no way she was going to any place Malfoy frequented.  
On August third, Hermione met Ron and Harry at Madam Malkin’s shop, and, low and behold, there also was Malfoy—and his mother. Although Draco ignored Hermione completely (and was more-than-characteristically obnoxious and surly to Harry, Ron, and Madam Malkin), his mother looked at Hermione with blatant contempt. Hermione had never been the recipient of so much hostility from an adult—not even from Professor Snape! Mrs. Malfoy’s behavior Hermione could easily explain, though, as she knew that Mrs. Malfoy was a Black family descendant, and that they were notorious Pureblood Elitists: it was Draco’s behavior that had Hermione confused. She had expected to be called ‘Mudblood’ or, at the very least, be degraded in some other way by him; but she was not.  
In the last two weeks in July and the rest of the month of August, Hermione came across Malfoy a total of seven times. This is worse than at school! she bemoaned. Almost always, Malfoy was in a shop before she arrived, but twice she beat him to the punch. She tried to enjoy herself at her past-times and in her favorite places, but no matter where she went she was looking around for him; she’d stand where she had a clear view of the door, in case she needed to A: hide, or B: run out ASAP. If Hermione would see him first, he always seemed to turn to her before she could turn away without him seeing her, and if he saw her first, he didn’t try to hide from her, although he seemed embarrassed.  
Everything about meeting Malfoy in Muggle London was disconcerting, as was his behavior toward her at Madam Malkin’s, but Hermione was most perplexed by the fact that, although he saw her every time she saw him, not once did he sneer at her or speak to her—not even to call her a Mudblood. 

\------------------------------

-September 1996  
On September first, the first term of her sixth year began. Thoughts of the ‘mystery that was Malfoy’ were all forgotten; when her brain was not totally engaged in the classroom or studying, her thoughts would always go to the Prophecy. Over the summer she’d obsessed over the Prophecy—the ‘untruthfulness of it, unfairness of it, and ridiculousness of it,’ in her words. Finally, Hermione, obsessing over it so much that she was giving herself headaches, had decided to rid herself of her emotional objections to the Prophecy and to rationally sort it out. She’d decided that she trusted Professor Dumbledore with her life, and that logic dictated that she must also trust him regarding this Prophecy. After settling that, the rest came easily. She would do whatever she could to stop Voldemort, and she would do anything she could to help Harry and to save him and Ron. If sacrificing so much of herself was for the ‘greater good,’ then she would do it. So, she resolved to see the prophetic words transpire, now matter how distasteful it was to her (and it was VERY distasteful to her).  
Now, as school began, she found herself obsessing over the ‘who’ in the prophecy. She searched the faces of Hogwarts. Could HE be my ‘equal’? Does HE fit the prophecy? Hermione had given up on the idea that the young man in question could be someone (Harry or a Weasley) with whom she was already very comfortable….someone who would understand that her odd situation was necessary and dictated by the Prophecy….someone who would treat her well through the whole strange and awkward ordeal. She still had hopes, however, that whomever would be the father of her baby would be someone she could tolerate while raising the child.  
Why can’t it be Ron? That would be perfect, she thought and daydreamed—often. One such occasion, she was sitting in Potions (where she was staring at Ron who had just entered the room with Harry) when she was broken out of this reverie by Professor Slughorn asking her name.  
“Granger, Sir. Hermione Granger.”  
“Granger….Are you a relation of the famous Potions Master Hector Dagworth-Granger, my dear?”  
“No, I don’t believe so….I’m Muggle-born, sir.”  
Slughorn praised Hermione for her answer to his questions about the four potions on display, and she unabashedly reveled in it—praise from a potions teacher for the first time in her life! And to top it off, she could tell that Malfoy was jealous about it. She smirked to herself.  
Hermione really wanted the Felix Felicis that would be hers if she brewed a perfect Draught of Living Death; she could use a bit of luck as she tried to fulfill her prophecy. Everyone in the class had their own reasons for wanting it; they all had some matter of importance in mind that would warrant the use of a little Liquid Luck, but—Who of them had a better reason than an important task like Hermione had? she thought. She looked around. Everyone looked focused. Lavender looked pathetically desperate, but distracted. Malfoy, Hermione noticed, looked focused, but to distraction, like a man obsessed.  
When all Draught was brewed, it was Harry who was awarded the Felicis, and for once Hermione had the inclination to take advantage of her friendship with Harry by asking him to share some with her. Hermione was startled by his expression; Malfoy was so furious that he was snarling. 

\--------------------------

Mid-September, right before Hermione’s seventeenth birthday, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were relaxing in the Gryffindor Common Room after Quidditch tryouts. Hermione had confounded Cormac McLaggen to help Ron win the position of Keeper (not that she was advertising it, though), and she was almost as punch drunk about as he was.  
Out of the blue, Ron said, “Hermione, McLaggen fancies you, you know?”  
Hermione was not totally shocked by this; she had seen the looks that Cormac, a seventh year and the Head Boy, had been sending her way lately, the first occurring at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes in August.  
“He’s vile,” she said earnestly. Although she had considered him handsome for several years now, she never gave him much serious thought due to his reputation (and her infatuation with first Harry in fourth year and now Ron since fifth year). McLaggen had never shown her any attention until this year. Maybe HE is THE he? He is my equal in that he is also a Gryffindor and in that we are both in the Slug Club….  
McLaggen was very tall and had obvious muscles, noticeable even while wearing his school uniform (minus the bulky robe). His hair was medium-blonde, thick, wiry, and slightly curly. His eyes were hazel, and his skin clear and tan. He had a charming Scottish accent to boot. Other girls referred to him as ‘The Cedric Diggory of Gryffindor.’ He wore a certain expression when he looked at Hermione…..like a smolder, but not frightening, she described it to herself. He is quite handsome…our baby would be cute…blimey, what is wrong with me!? I’m never like this! This is how Parvati and Lavender behave, not me! But…. I SHOULD let what may happen between him and me happen…..  
Suddenly, Hermione realized that Ron and Harry were looking at her with raised eyebrows and saying her name. Hermione regained her focus on reality and looked away from them, into the fire.  
I’m SO glad they are not Legilimens!  
Later that night, Hermione dreamed she had a handsome, husky, hazel-eyed, curly blonde-haired baby boy. She awoke feeling sure McLaggen was ‘THE He’ (as she had dubbed the young man referred to by the Prophecy), and she was neither happy nor sad nor afraid of that—but THAT realization scared her. I love Ron! She held out hope for him….for them as a couple.  
I won’t let a prophecy of a baby deter me from loving Ron.  
But she was niggled by the thought that maybe the Prophecy WOULD stand between her and Ron. She already knew that Ron couldn’t be THE He her Prophecy referred to, but she could still fulfill her prophecy by bearing the baby of another guy while still in a relationship with Ron.  
Right, Hermione, like any guy would be understanding of his girlfriend sleeping with someone else with the intention of getting pregnant, the rational part of her brain taunted her optimistic part.  
Ron would understand. I’ll be getting pregnant to save the world; how could he not understand that? If he loved me, then he’d stand by me, she responded confidently.

\------------------------------

-November 1996  
Hermione may not be able to pick Ron for the baby’s father (for reasons she still could not fathom), but she still wanted to be with him. Try as she may to hint at the fact to him, though, he would not respond as she hoped—dreamed, prayed, wished on falling stars, etc.,— that he would. So, one afternoon in Herbology, Hermione, intending on asking him to be her date to Slughorn’s Christmas party, broached the topic of the Slug Club and the upcoming party.  
“Why don’t you try hooking up with McLaggen, and then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug?” Ron said snappily. Hermione was taken aback—and angry.  
“Actually, Ronald, I was going to ask you, but now I won’t bother!” Hermione said, equally snappily, and moved her things to another table and tried not to cry. Ron was hurt and jealous because he hadn’t been invited into the Club like his sister, Harry, and Hermione had, Hermione realized with sympathy. But why must he behave like such a prat about it? she fumed.  
When Ron snogged Lavender in front of the entire Gryffindor House a few weeks later, Hermione was shocked and powerless to stop the tears from falling. When she ran out of the room, she was unnoticed by everyone except Harry and Cormac McLaggen (who was still watching her non-stop and sending smoldering looks her way).  
As the days went on, Hermione forced herself to think less about Ron, trying to spare herself from the heartbreak she was receiving (albeit unknowingly) at his hands. Still, she held on to hope that they would be together soon; she didn’t think Ron could put up with someone as superficial as Lavender for long.  
She distracted herself from her love-woes by focusing on her ‘search’ for ‘THE He,” and was making some more deductions as to his identity. Dean Thomas, though dating Ginny (which would be awkward to say the least!) was a Gryffindor and a Muggleborn, had nice skin and a decent personality. Ravenclaws Zacharias Smith, Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, and Michael Corner were all very intellectual (they could be considered my ‘equal’). Ernie MacMillan was an intellectual boy (with a dreamy Scottish brogue to boot, thought Hermione), but he was a Hufflepuff and not a Muggleborn; Hermione knew him to be a Pureblood (whatever that means, Hermione thought with an aggravated sigh). Then there was Justin Finch-Fletchley from Hufflepuff House, who was a Muggleborn but wasn’t necessarily her ‘equal’ as he wasn’t in any of her NEWT classes (although he may be in all NEWT-level classes that I’m not taking, guessed Hermione). Of all of these candidates, Justin seemed to be the most likely, but Hermione hardly knew him.  
Two Slytherin sixth-years were also on Hermione’s mental list of candidates; both were smart and one a member of the Slug Club. Namely, the two were Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini. She had most of her NEWT-level classes, including Potions, with them. Based on the criteria with which Nott and Zabini were added to her ‘list,’ Malfoy should have been added as well; but Hermione refused to even THINK about him as a candidate.  
And Nott and Zabini making the list means very little; the likelihood of ‘THE He’ being a Slytherin is slim-to-none; most of them are Purebloods and wouldn’t lower themselves to sleep with a Muggleborn. She wasn’t sure, but she was willing to bet such was the case with Nott and Zabini.  
Theo (as Hermione had heard Malfoy call him) was tall with thin light brown hair, light brown eyes, and pale skin. He was handsome in his own way; he at least smiled shyly sometimes, not merely smirking arrogantly like all of his other Slytherin mates. He was very quiet and seemed shy and dedicated to his studies. His only friends appeared to be Malfoy and Zabini.  
Blaise was also quiet, but to Hermione, his quietness seemed to stem more from superciliousness than from shyness. He played on the Slytherin Quidditch Team (Harry had mentioned that he was their new Seeker this year, replacing Malfoy). He was very handsome; he had an oval face and dark eyes and beautiful dark brown skin and black hair, and gorgeous teeth. He was tall and lean. Hermione had heard from Parvati that many girls were always chasing after him. He seemed to have many friends, although Hermione had seen him alone in The Three Broomsticks (which was were she’d had the perfect opportunity to study his handsome features) the day in October when Katie Bell had been cursed.  
Thinking of having intercourse (as her very proper mother had always referred to sex as and so, also, did Hermione) with any of them was troubling, but with the last two, she was almost physically sick. Hermione could not imagine giving her virginity to anyone she wasn’t in love with, but she was fiercely opposed to giving it to a Slytherin, even to help defeat Voldemort.  
That just seems so counterintuitive and counterproductive—besides being against a law of nature!  
But then, couldn’t my prejudice against Slytherins be likened to the Pureblood Supremacists’ prejudice against Muggleborns?….No, mine is justified!

\------------------------------

Between dealing with the Prophecy and having to listen to Lavender going gaga over Ron non-stop in their shared dormitory, Hermione cried herself to sleep most nights. And the worst part is that I have no one I can talk to about it! Dumbledore had instructed her to keep her prophecy a secret but had allowed her to tell Harry if she chose. Hermione didn’t think Harry would take her Prophecy well, and he already had a lot on his mind, so she didn’t share her secret with him.  
Besides, this Prophecy is blooming embarrassing!  
So, she did the next best thing; she started a journal. She had never been one who wrote in a journal, but she figured that it would be good for her mental health to do so.  
“It should keep me from going mad,” she said quietly to herself.  
A voice in her head said, ‘You’re already talking to yourself.’  
Great; I’m already there. I’m talking to myself and hearing voices,’ she though, remembering that even in the Wizarding world, hearing voices was not a good thing.  
Grunting to let out her frustrations, she laid down on her bed with her curtains closed and a silencing charm placed around her to silence Lavender’s squeals to Parvati about her ‘Won-Won’, and started writing. She wrote, and wrote, wrote.  
You even ramble when you write, said the voice in her head.  
Ugh!  
It was while she was writing that she received a note delivered by a younger Gryffindor girl. The note was from Professor Burbidge, the Muggle Studies teacher. It read:

Miss Granger,

Headmaster Dumbledore and I have been discussing your brilliant mind, unmatched responsibility, and generosity of spirit, along with your Muggle background, and we have concluded that you would be a perfect fit to tutor a student who is in danger of failing Muggle Studies and who has no one else to turn to for help in this subject. As you both are very busy Sixth Years and Prefects, we have decided that the best times for your tutoring should be during mealtimes and during your Prefect patrols, which have been scheduled to be together. Head Girl Chang and Head Boy McLaggen have already been informed.  
We thank you heartily for your willingness to help a fellow student.  
Sincerely, 

Professor C. Burbidge  
Muggle Studies

P.S. The student is Draco Malfoy

Hermione stared at his name, and then she did something she never did: “Bloody hell!” she swore.

\--------------------------  
Hermione and Draco did, in fact, have every patrol duty together, Hermione noticed when Head Boy Cormac McLaggen handed Hermione her Patrol schedule (with a smolder) for the remainder of the term. Ron (who was also a Prefect again this year) was not happy with the Patrol schedule or her tutoring Malfoy, a fact in which Hermione found more than a teensy bit of satisfaction. However, Harry, though he was also upset by her schedule and tutoring Malfoy, saw a silver lining to it.  
“Hermione, I know Malfoy has taken his father’s place as a Death Eater, but I need proof…can’t you try to worm it out of him during one of your tutoring sessions? And he’s up to something. I mean, he quit the Quidditch team for some reason, and it has to be something big for Malfoy to give up being the Captain and Seeker of the Slytherin team—”  
Hmm, Harry does have a point there….shame—Malfoy looked so….FIT in his Quidditch uniform…oh my, where did THAT come from?  
“—and I have so much on my mind, what with my task from Dumbledore—”  
Ha! If he only knew, thought Hermione.  
“—so I could really use your help, Hermione.”  
Hermione listened politely before enumerating the reasons why she believed Harry’s hypotheses to be unfounded and declining to be his mole when it came to Malfoy. Harry didn’t give up, though; he pestered her before every patrol she did. Harry always ended up frustrated with her and grumpy, and Hermione always felt useless (which she hated)….and taken for granted a bit. 

\-----------------------------

Hermione and Draco met in a classroom near the Great Hall for the last thirty minutes of every dinner hour. They took Draco’s Muggle Studies text along with them, Hermione quizzing Draco on the chapters, but mostly explaining the Muggle terms in the chapters to him.  
Hermione was not surprised about Draco’s knowledge of Muggle transportation. That’s how he makes it from his home to London, she thought, as she knew his family’s mansion was in the country somewhere. He also had knowledge of Muggle money. Also, that is not surprising. But why—WHY did he venture into Muggle London in the first place? Wasn’t that going against all he believed in—lowering himself to mingle around with ‘dirty Muggles’?  
Neither had spoken about his forays into Muggle London over the summer until one night when the topic of the chapter for that day was Muggle London itself.  
“What’s your favorite part of Muggle London, Malfoy?” she timidly asked, unable to deny her curiosity any longer.  
Draco’s face showed he was surprised by her question, but one second later he plastered his usual scowl on his face. “What makes you think that I would have a favorite part of Muggle London, Granger?”  
Hermione just sighed. “Never mind.”  
Their patrol was over shortly thereafter, and they each left for their own House dormitories.  
Nothing much changed over the next few weeks. Hermione found Draco very distracted and always eager to leave. They never said anything to each other beyond the tutoring subjects and prefect duties. While Draco never gave Hermione any answers to personal questions, he didn’t treat her with disgust and never used the word that made her blood boil. They studied with the classroom door open during meals and never sat beside one another. All in all, Hermione was very pleased with how the tutoring was going, and Professor Burbidge reported via letter that she, too, was happy with the change in Draco’s marks. Nevertheless, Hermione was looking forward to her tutoring ending this term.  
November melted into December. Harry was still as persistent as ever that Hermione play the mole in his operation to solve the ‘mystery of Malfoy.’ Hermione would not budge, still not seeing any evidence to support Harry’s suppositions. Besides, she thought, I have my own mysteries about Malfoy to uncover—the first being why he was so often in Muggle London, experiencing Muggle music and literature, and the second (and more disconcerting) being why she had unusual thoughts about how dishy Malfoy is.  
Curiosity killed the cat, you know? she thought to herself.  
I know. Do I ever.  
She was fully aware of the risks of being too curious, but she just couldn’t help herself. One night while tutoring at dinnertime, she came right out and said, “What did you think about the music of Celine Dion that you listened to during the summer holiday?”  
Draco scowled immediately, looking her square in the eyes intently. “Have you told anyone, Granger?” he asked in a low, clipped tone.  
“N-no, not at all,” she stammered, feeling stupid for trying to broach the subject.  
“Good,” he said and sniffed arrogantly.  
Silence filled the room. Hermione was going to move on to the topic in the chapter from the textbook Draco was currently needing to study when, on impulse, she said, “She’s one of my favorite vocalists. She has been for a few years now. Her voice is amazing. Plus, I admire her looks. As a child, she had unruly hair like I have, but now it’s beautiful.” Then Hermione became braver. “That day…in the music store….I was there to listen to her latest album, which I hadn’t heard yet.”  
Draco just looked at her, surprised. She was silent, pensive, anticipating. Draco, too, was silent until he said, abruptly, “I concur about her voice, even if she is a Mug—”  
Her brow furrowed momentarily before she realized that Draco was about to say ‘Muggle’ not ‘Mudblood.’ It really threw her off her game. She was about to defend the singing voices of Muggles everywhere, when Draco said, “The instrumental accompaniment in the songs is what I appreciate most about Muggle music.”  
Hermione was shocked for a moment. “I took piano lessons as a child, but I never practiced enough to become proficient, unfortunately. I preferred to read or to write my own stories,” she finished, quietly. She hastily added, jovially, “Perhaps that’s why my only talent is being a bookworm,” she joked, trying to change the subject while covering up her feelings of insecurity at having just revealed personal information to Malfoy.  
Draco did not laugh. Fearing she had said too much and that he was about to berate her, she fell silent, bracing for verbal abuse. Draco started to open his mouth then closed it and then opened it again, saying dully, “Your talent is being the Brightest of Your Age.”  
Hermione looked up in astonishment at him. What is he about? Is he joking? Should I thank him? His eyes are grey, not light blue. How have I never noticed? They are gorgeous! Hermione was still staring at him like she was under a spell (though she wasn’t) when Draco quietly stood, gathered his books, and promptly left the room.  
Who was that and what have they done with Draco Malfoy?  
And crikey, his eyes are mesmerizing!

\------------------------------

Christmas was quickly approaching; Professor Flitwick, as usual, was decorating the castle using his unmatched talent with Charms, and Hermione was ecstatic that her NEWT-level class was invited to help. She had always loved Christmases growing up, and now she loved magical Christmases even more. She was even looking forward to Slughorn’s Christmas party.  
As she practiced the charms to decorate the huge Christmas tree in the Great Hall, she noticed Draco looking her way several times. He scowled whenever she caught him at it. So he’s back to normal then, she thought and rolled her eyes.  
After the decorating during Charms class ended, however, Draco caught up to her, moved ahead of her, and then turned to face her, his arms crossed over his chest, his body blocking her path.  
“Granger, I have a report due for Muggle Studies. Bloody Burbidge—” he was cut off by Hermione gasping and giving him a scowl for swearing. He knew she disapproved of swearing from the many times over the last few weeks that he had sworn in front of her and she had taken offense, but he thought most of this chastisement was because of the derogatory term being applied to the Muggle Studies teacher, specifically.  
“As I was saying,” he started again and rolling is eyes, “Burbidge assigned to me a report to bring up my marks, and I have to submit it upon returning from the Christmas holiday.”  
Hermione waited for an actual request to be made of her; no way was she going to let Malfoy off easy. He stared at her; she raised her eyebrows.  
“Ugghh, woman!” he exclaimed. Then, “Granger will you help me?” he asked quietly, dropping his arms to his sides, his fists clenched in frustration.  
“Malfoy, I honestly don’t know how you expect me to fit this into my schedule in just the next few weeks. I have to study for exams, patrol, and prepare for the Yule Ball, and I have Slughorn’s party….” she trailed off, getting anxious just thinking about it all. Draco only frowned at her.  
“Granger, must I remind you that you really have no choice but to tutor me for the sole purpose of helping me earn passing marks in Muggle Studies? Furthermore, this report is exactly how I am to earn said marks.”  
Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What is the topic of your report to be about, Malfoy?” she asked, knowing he was right—she really didn’t have a choice.  
“Muggle Family Home Life, Burbidge’s selection,” he replied in a factual tone and with a stoic look upon his face, which surprised Hermione. Inwardly, she cringed because she knew it was going to take loads of time to help Malfoy on this subject. Outwardly, she gave him a fake smile. “You already know so much, Malfoy. It will be simple for us to complete before the holiday. You get it started, and I’ll help you fill in the areas of the topic in which you’re knowledge is…minimal,” she said, choosing her words very carefully. She started to walk away when he spun around and kept up with her brisk pace as she headed up the marble stairs.  
“You’re in the Slug Club then,’ he said with disdain. “Yes, I seem to recall Zabini mentioning you were…and Potter,” Draco said, emphasizing Harry’s name with disgust. “You’ll be taking Potter the Slughorn’s party and the Yule Ball, then, I assume, as The Weasel King is dating that Brown bimbo. Gads, none of you Gryffindors have any taste,” Draco declared in a snooty tone.  
Hermione bit her lip to keep from grinning at Draco’s insult of Lavender. Quickly recovering, however, she focused on what else he had just said and was stunned and confused—stunned that he knew so much about Gryffindors (and that he actually was talking about any of them), and confused at why Malfoy would think she would be Harry’s date.  
“Harry? No. I mean, he is my best friend, but that’s all, and besides, he likes someone else. Why do you think I’d be going with Harry?”  
Draco sighed impatiently, as if it were obvious. “Well, Granger, because Potter’s the only male in Hogwarts allowed to show you any attention, per The Weasel King’s little edict,” he replied. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “That tosser McLaggen doesn’t care about defying The Weasel, though, and of course no one in Slytherin, but…” Draco finished, seemingly talking to himself and looking contemplative.  
Hermione stopped and turned on a dime, staring at his eyes. Cocking her head in incredulity and gesturing ‘stop,’ she demanded, “Wait….WHAT did you say?”

\-----------------------

It was going to happen; Ron was going to be Avada’d, and Hermione was going to be the one to do it, IF what Malfoy said was true. After hearing Draco’s tale about Ron’s supposed ‘edict,’ Hermione had promptly turned and furiously trudged to the Gryffindor Common Room. Not seeing Ron or Harry in the Room, she turned to Neville; she knew that he could not lie (he was terrible under pressure) and that he would not lie to her anyway (he was such a sweet guy and always seemed a bit afraid of her).  
“Neville, is it true that Ron made an edict about guys leaving me alone? As in ‘not dating me’?” Hermione asked furiously. Neville looked shocked and incredibly nervous, and he gulped before saying, “That’s, um….its, um….what I’ve heard.”  
Hermione was irate! She could not believe Ron would stoop so low. He doesn’t want me, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have me, either? He thinks he could just treat me like his property—like this is the Middle Ages! He behaves like this with Ginny and her boyfriends, but I’m not even his SISTER! She was off-her-bird-livid, but still cognizant enough to know that she couldn’t REALLY kill him as she had first asserted to do. She could hex his bollocks and defy him in any way she could, though, she thought gleefully.  
And boy, will I!  
The first thing she did was ask McLaggen to be her date to Slughorn’s Christmas party; he readily accepted (with smoldering stare, too, no less). The second thing she did was to hex Ron’s bollocks, using the Inflammation Charm and the Itching Charm. He’ll be walking slowly for a week! And boy, did he—but for only a day; Hermione didn’t really have it in her heart to be too cruel. Thirdly, Hermione wrote him a letter berating his behavior and telling him how much it disappointed her. She asked McLaggen to deliver it to Ron in the Common Room; even though she could have delivered it to him herself, the look on his face before he even opened the letter was priceless and worth her having resorted to petty antics.

\---------------------------

Strolling into the Library on a Thursday night, the day after he had rocked Hermione’s world with the knowledge of Ron’s little edict, Draco saw Hermione studying with Harry. Bloody hell, I hate Potter, he thought.  
The hatred between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, and that between Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, was well-known at Hogwarts; in fact, some described it as ‘legend-in-the-making.’ Draco hated Potter and Granger for very different reasons, although the hatred he felt for one Gryffindor was much greater than that which he felt for the other.  
Draco had hated Potter since Potter embarrassed him before the Sorting Ceremony when they were first-year students at Hogwarts. He resented all of the attention Potter received from professors, girls at Hogwarts, and witches and wizards in the Wizarding World.  
His feelings for Granger originated because of other circumstances. He had wanted (and he still did) to be the best student in his year, but he’d very quickly realized that between Granger’s brains and work ethic he would have fierce competition for the title. He had eventually resigned himself to the fact that beating Granger perhaps wasn’t possible for him (or anyone). He still tried; he had no choice but to do his best in hopes that he would beat Granger (at what was obviously her own game) and that his father wouldn’t berate him for not doing so. His father had expected him to be top of his class and had been angry the first year when he’d found out that Draco wasn’t; but he’d been livid and disgusted with Draco upon learning that a Mudblood consistently beat Draco’s marks. Of course, Draco hadn’t revealed this information to his father, but as Professor Snape was a close friend of his father’s, his father had found out anyway. His whole family had hated Muggles and Muggleborns for as long as Draco could remember. No one would debate that the Malfoy parents were devoted to their progeny, extending that devotion to include a fervent hatred for a person who rivaled their son; they, too, hated Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.  
Seeing the Advanced Potions textbook on the table between his two enemies, Draco remembered the first Potions lesson of this term: Draco had fumed at Potter and Granger from across the room when bloody Potter had announced that Granger was the best student in their year (and Granger had awarded him a brilliant smile, which clearly showed her now appropriately-sized pearly whites). Potter, Draco had seethed in his seat at he’d gaped at the sight; he’d seethed at Potter—not Granger.  
Draco’s jealousy for Granger’s achievements was outweighed by his jealousy of the attention Granger gave Potter. She befriended him, followed him almost everywhere, championed for him, cheered for him, gave him someone to rely on and trust in, and adored him. It made Draco sick; or his incredible amount of jealousy made him sick, rather. He felt nothing for her besides jealousy of her prodigious skills as a witch (no way, he surely didn’t); it was just the fact that the ‘Brightest’ admired Potter and not him, Draco, that made him hate Potter even more. Even Draco realized the significance of being able to say that ‘The Brightest’ was your friend, and that she also admired you. A Malfoy, not a Potter (and for cripes sake not bloody HARRY Potter), should have the admiration of the ‘Brightest’—even if the ‘Brightest’ were a Muggleborn. It was her admiration, not her friendship, that Draco sought (deserved), and so her blood status made no difference to him (in THIS case).  
He’d been feeling this way for years, but this year it seemed to agitate him more than usual. These feelings were stronger now—or maybe it was because Granger was one of two subjects that were almost always occupying his thoughts.  
As Draco ruminated over all of this, he flashed a look of disgust toward Harry as he sat with Hermione. Here he is, with Granger fawning over HIM when she should be adoring ME and helping ME with my report. He had half a mind to demand that Granger leave Potter to do his own work and to help him with his Muggle Studies report, but he reminded himself that he had more important things to do this evening.  
Walking behind them, getting as close to them as he could without being obvious, he heard Hermione telling Harry in a whisper, “Filch wouldn’t be checking potions when people are attempting to bring them into the Castle. Love potions aren’t dark or dangerous.”  
For Merlin’s sake, is Granger alluding to the fact that she was given a love potion or that she gave one to someone else? Didn’t she hear Slughorn say in our first Potions lesson this term that Amortentia is the most dangerous potion? He sighed in frustration and rubbed his temples and, seeing Madam Pince approaching the Golden Gryffindors, he turned on his heel and walked away, planning to use a Disillusionment Charm to sneak into the Restricted Section again. Although his main objective tonight was to research how to bespell objects, he thought he may also keep an eye on the two Gryffindors; in his experience, he could usually learn something from them that would later be very advantageous to his plans. His tasks were proving more difficult than he had imagined, and he realized that he needed all of the advantages he could procure—and that meant doing whatever was necessary.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Hols   
> (trigger ahead)

-December 22

Hermione was, once again, packing her trunk. As much as she loved Hogwarts like home, she was ready to leave for Christmas Holiday tomorrow. This past term had just been so stressful, and she had been so busy! Now, she was looking forward to relaxing at home.

Her Exams were over, and the Yule ball last night had been a huge success, according to Parvati. Hermione had, of course, as Prefect, done her duty to help with the planning, decorating, and cleaning up afterwards, but she had not attended. The night before the Ball had been Slughorn’s Christmas party, at which McLaggen had been so _handsy_ that Hermione was completely turned off and couldn’t bring herself to go with him to the Ball (to which he had secured her as his date when she had asked him to be her date for Slughorn’s party). McLaggen wouldn’t take kindly to being stood up, she’d thought, but she hadn’t given it a second thought once she’d made her decision. _‘THE he’ or not, he’s not going to be given the opportunity to fondle me! He’ll have to behave himself if he wants the privilege of my company_ , she’d thought with an indignant huff.

She also hadn’t been able to bring herself to go the Ball where she knew Ron and Lavender would be bumping and grinding and swaying together while kissing all night; cowardly though it may have been, she hadn’t cared. She had stayed up in her dormitory, writing in her journal. She’d written so much in her journal this term that she was in need of a new one already.

As she finished packing all that she could until the final packing before heading to Hogsmeade Station tomorrow at 11am, an owl came to her dormitory window and knocked with its beak. It was almost as beautiful as Hedwig, though it was not a snowy owl. She was surprised to find that the owl carried a message for her, as she rarely received owl posts and never any from an owl as beautiful as this one. She was further surprised to see that the letter was from Professor Dumbledore.

_Miss Granger, I trust you remember that time is of the essence! Please inform me right away when the Prophecy’s events commence._

_-A. Dumbledore_

Hermione groaned. She had almost been able to put the blasted Prophecy out of her mind; she _was_ going to have a break from school, _so why shouldn’t I be able to take a break from the annoying Prophecy?_ she rationalized. She rested on her bed, enjoying the quiet in her dormitory, for once.

Shortly thereafter, another owl knocked at the window! This owl looked like a school owl: plain and brown. She gave the owl a treat and untied the parchment message from its leg. She scanned to rolled-up message for its recipient’s name. This letter was also for her!

_Granger,_

_As you are well aware, you did agree to help me with my report, and you have failed to do so. As the Train leaves tomorrow morning, we have no choice but to meet today. Meet me in the Library after lunch._

_D.M._

She groaned—again. _Arrogant git!_ But, she had been so busy the last couple of weeks that she had completely forgotten about helping him with his report. They’d be lucky to complete it before Holiday as it was already noon, she thought, and so they’d have to work on it all of today, and probably tomorrow on the train, if Draco didn’t object, to get it finished in time. She grumbled to herself all the way down to the crowded Common Room to meet up with Harry and Ginny for lunch.

“Hermione, we thought we’d play outside in the snow after lunch today, you know, like is our tradition every Christmas at the Burrow, and as you won’t be there this year…” Harry said, giving Hermione his version of ‘puppy dog eyes.’ Harry was definitely not happy that Hermione was choosing to skip the Burrow this year, and she felt bad for letting him down, but she just could not be near Ron for one more second.

“Sorry, Harry, but I’m tutoring Malfoy in the library all afternoon today directly after lunch, but I hope you have fun.”

()

Hermione was heading up the marble stairs after her lunch when an owl approached her, landing on the bannister. “Another one of you? Two aren’t enough for one day?” she teased. She took the message from the plain, brown owl’s leg, saying apologetically, “Sorry, I don’t have any treats with me,” and unrolled the parchment. _Ahh, I do love the smell of new parchment._

The letter simply said,

_Change of plan. Meet me at the Room of Requirement not the Library._

“That git Malfoy can’t even bothering to sign his name,” she scoffed. Sighing, she changed her course, heading up to the Room.

()

Hours later, Hermione stumbled along a corridor. She was disoriented, sleepy, and uncomfortable. She knew she was near the Room of Requirement because she recognized the tapestry depicting Barnabus the Barmy teaching trolls to dance. She moved along slowly, trying to get her bearings so she could make her way to Gryffindor Tower; she couldn’t remember, though, in which direction to go.

She was alone in the corridor for a long time, until she heard a voice, which sounded far away and like it was echoing, calling out her name. She recognized the voice and turned toward it, blinking repetitiously, having to concentrate to keep her eyes focused on him.

Harry noticed right away how disheveled her appearance was. She wasn’t wearing her robe, and he wondered where her wand was. He noticed that the zipper of her skirt was not perfectly centered in the middle of her back as it always was; it was instead off to the side near her hip. Her shirt was untucked, and she was carrying her shoes—well, one shoe, as she had dropped the other a few feet behind her. Harry knew that this outward appearance of her spoke volumes to what her inner state was. He looked around the corridor but saw no one and heard nothing.

“Oh! Harry!” Hermione sobbed, as she stumbled to Harry, he running to embrace her. She buried her wet, red face in his chest.

“What happened, Hermione?” Harry asked with forced-calm after a few minutes of holding a crying Hermione and trying to decide what to do.

Hermione looked up, looking into his face, searching his eyes, as if trying to find the answer in them. “I’m….I’m not sure, Harry.”

Harry, while tucking a large, folded parchment—The Marauders’ Map—into his robe, said coaxingly, “Come on, Hermione, lets get you to Madam Pomfrey, ok?”

Hermione nodded and, clutching onto Harry’s robe with a death-grip, allowed him to lead her to the Hospital Wing.

Down the hall from Hermione and Harry, peeking around the corner, and observing the whole scene between the two Gryffindors, was Draco Malfoy. As Harry led Hermione along the seventh floor, Draco walked in the opposite direction toward the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy.

()

Madam Pomfrey took one, long, scrutinizing look at Hermione’s entire person and said sternly, “Please wait outside the Wing, Mr. Potter.”

Harry was about to protest, but he did as he was bid, taking one last look at Hermione as Pomfrey led Hermione from him to a bed surrounded by privacy screens. He walked out through the double doors of the Hospital Wing, trying to hold in his tears. He heard the door locks click behind him.

It was a long time that Harry waited for Madam Pomfrey to come back out to him. She peeked her head out through the doors and put up a hand as Harry started toward the doors, saying, “Mr. Potter, Miss Granger is doing well, but she needs her rest. Please come back tomorrow morning before leaving for the train when Miss Granger will be ready to join you.” Harry was about to protest, but the Madam’s expression was formidable, so instead he asked her to give Hermione his best. She nodded politely before closing and locking the doors again. As Harry turned the corner in the corridor just outside the Hospital Wing, Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore came sweeping by him and entered the Wing, using silent and wandless magic to unlock the doors, before Harry could utter a greeting.

Harry wanted to know why she hadn’t been in the Library tutoring Malfoy as she said she would; his own plans had changed, so he understood that hers possibly had too, but he still wanted an explanation of what had happened to her. Realizing that he wasn’t going to get any answers from Hermione tonight, he pulled out his Marauders’ Map, trying to locate Malfoy again.

He was nowhere to be found.

()

Madam Pomfrey sat at Hermione’s side for what felt like ages to Hermione, offering Hermione a comforting presence as Hermione’s mentation cleared and the fear ebbed away. In the interim, the Madam performed a magical physical assessment using her wand on Hermione. Her suspicions of what had caused Hermione to turn up in the state in which she had were confirmed. When Hermione proved to Pomfrey that she was completely coherent, the Healer spoke quietly to Hermione, asking her what she remembered, and then told her what all her assessment revealed.

It then hit Hermione—like a ton of bricks—why she was feeling so uncomfortable, and she cried—hard. She sobbed, and groaned, and screamed into her pillow. Still, Hermione denied that it was as bad as Madam Pomfrey was indicating; Pomfrey had assumed that Hermione had been raped, but, although Pomfrey was correct, Hermione didn’t see it that way. Hermione recalled that she had been a willing participant. Pomfrey was astounded by Hermione’s declaration, but decided not to press the young, forlorn witch for more details at that moment.

The Madam then assisted Hermione into the bathroom tub in the Hospital Wing to help her relax and to ease the pain—and to wash away the fluids on her body that were making her feel more disgusting than she’d ever felt in her life. There was more blood and more ‘ _other stuff,’_ as Hermione called it, than she had imagined there would be. Pomfrey assured her it was normal—as were the feelings she was having about it.

She relaxed while in the tub, and she felt much better physically and emotionally after cleansing. She wasn’t feeling scared anymore; her mentation fully clear, she processed it all while soaking in the lavender-scented water. This really shouldn’t be so much of a shock to her, she thought. After all, she had known it would come to pass; she had known she had to let it. And despite the way it had happened, she found relief in knowing that the biggest problem she’d had with the Prophecy—engaging in sex—was now overcome.

She laid down to sleep after Madam Pomfrey gave her a sleeping draught ( _this is getting to be ridiculous,_ Hermione thought of the two draughts Pomfrey had given her in the last six months). She lie there, still not comprehending _how_ she could have done _what_ she had done with _whom_ she had done it! She hadn’t even considered him to be a potential ‘THE HE’ of which the Prophecy spoke! She didn’t love him—or even like him—AT ALL!

()

In the morning, Madam Pomfrey brought in her breakfast tray, which had just been delivered to the Wing by a house elf. Hermione hadn’t had an appetite last night for dinner, but this morning she was starving. She allowed her mind to replay the events of yesterday as she ate her breakfast.

_She had met Malfoy outside the Room of the Requirement per his letter sent by owl. She’d felt tension, standing outside of that particular place with him, so she’d made a joke about teaching him some Defense Against the Dark Arts (referencing the DA and Draco’s part in dismantling it last year) after the Muggle Studies report was finished. ‘He’s looking at me funny,’ she had thought, ‘like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.’ Malfoy had then walked by the wall and mumbled something three times before a door opened in front of them. Then he had opened the door and said, smiling, “Ladies first.”_

_Immediately upon entering, Hermione was gently pushed further inside before she could yell at him for what she saw before her in the Room. A pink perfume bottle was thrust in her face, Malfoy spraying its contents, and she was unable to stop herself from inhaling it. She started berating him, but soon she was smiling at him. She smelled freshly mown grass, parchment, and….plastic. She was looking Malfoy in the eyes, thinking how beautiful they were; looking at his mouth, thinking how she’d like to kiss his lips; looking at his platinum hair, thinking how soft it appeared and wondering if she would get a chance to find out for sure; thinking of how FIT he looked in just his black school trousers and his school dress shirt; thinking of how FINE he looked in his Quidditch uniform; thinking how smart he was, how sweet and kind he was, and how she wanted him to hold her, kiss her, and…_

_Malfoy then did start kissing her, touching her, undressing her, leading her to the bed in the small, dark room lit with floating candles and then laying her down on it. She was not thinking of the Prophecy as she allowed Malfoy to do what he did…..as she did what she did; all she was thinking about was how in love with Draco Malfoy she was….and how much she was enjoying what he was doing to her….and what she wanted him to do next._

After reminiscing, Hermione replaying the events over and over, she realized that the feelings she had acted upon in the Room could only be the cause of one thing: a love potion. The pink perfume bottle must have contained love potion! _I know just who to_ _thank_ for _that_! She silently cursed Fred and George, blaming them for what she had lost and for the manner in which she had lost it.

Pomfrey came back a little later, while Hermione was still fuming, bringing Hermione back from her reverie of the events of last night, to take away the breakfast tray and to bring in a cloak and a wand.

“These were found by a student and brought here last night,” Pomfrey said as she laid Hermione’s cloak and wand on the bedside table. Hermione hadn’t even realized they had been missing. She nodded to Pomfrey in thanks.

“Are you ready for the exam, Miss Granger?”

Hermione nodded again, taking a big breath in as she prepared herself to comes to terms with something else besides the loss of her virginity.

“You remember that it may be too early to tell, even with magic?” the Madam asked, hopefully. Hermione nodded a third time. Pomfrey waved her wand over Hermione’s lower abdomen, muttering a charm, and then looking solemnly at Hermione. Hermione was so nervous she was shaking.

“Am I pregnant, Madam Pomfrey?”

()

The train ride back to London was better than the past twenty-four hours had been for Hermione, but only by a little. Sharing a compartment with Harry, Ron, Neville, and Luna (Ginny was in a separate compartment with her boyfriend, Dean Thomas) was pleasant, but Hermione’s mind was elsewhere. Finally, ‘Won-Won’ was pulled away to go sit with ‘Lav-Lav’ and her friends in their compartment, and Harry not so subtlety indicated to Neville and Luna that he needed to speak to Hermione in private.

Harry had collected Hermione from the Hospital Wing this morning and helped her to Gryffindor Tower. He had helped her finish packing her trunk and had escorted her down to the Entrance Hall, where they had awaited a carriage that would take them to Hogsmeade Station. He hadn’t asked her anything about the previous day, nor had Hermione volunteered anything. She had been almost entirely silent, and Harry had noticed that she kept her cloak hood up, shielding her face as if trying to hide it. She had stuck to him like glue while outside of her dormitory, never letting go of his hand. They had gotten some surprised looks from other students, but Hermione hadn’t noticed, and Harry couldn’t have cared any less. _Everyone already assumes we are a couple, anyway,_ he had thought, shrugging it off.

After their friends left them alone in the train compartment, Harry turned to face Hermione with his right hand on her upper left arm and his left hand reaching for her right.

“Ok, Hermione. We need to talk about yesterday. I was up all night worrying about you. I couldn’t find you anywhere after lunch…your name wasn’t anywhere on the Map until just a few minutes before I came across you in the corridor. Where were you? Why did you not meet Malfoy in the Library? What happened, Hermione?”

“Harry……” she paused to take a deep breath and to firm up her resolve to tell him the truth. She had decided this morning that she would confide in him (and only him), hoping for the best. Regardless of how close their friendship was and how much she trusted Harry, she had a tiny bit of fear that their friendship may not be able to survive this—that he wouldn’t be able to look past what she had done. She bit her lip in contemplation; Harry knew what that meant.

“Hermione, you’re my best friend. You can tell me anything,” Harry said sincerely, gently squeezing his hands where they held on to her. Hermione nodded.

“Thank you. I know, and I love you for it, Harry. You’re my best friend, too,” smiled Hermione. She took another deep breath. “I was in the Room of Requirement….I met Malfoy there, not at the Library….he had sent an owl with the change of meeting place. He was the one who asked the Room to provide what it did….which was a small, dim room with only a….bed.” Hermione paused, looking down in her lap where Harry’s hand held hers and taking another deep breath. “I was there for tutoring, I swear, but before I knew it, we were not doing anything of the sort. Malfoy used a love potion on me—the spray kind—George’s and Fred’s—and, well, we….um….had….intercourse.” Hermione whispered the last two words, and kept her gaze down, waiting for the fallout of her actions, while tears dripped down her face. She waited for Harry to say something; he said nothing. She anticipated Harry relinquishing her from his grip in revulsion; he didn’t. She looked up, tentatively, into Harry’s face. He looked ill. Finally he spoke.

“I’m so, so very sorry, Hermione—I….I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I know you would not have…..allowed that….to happen under normal circumstances. I’d bet my Quidditch Captain spot that you must have been under the influence of a love potion, and I’m guessing that there was another one used on you, too.”

Harry said the last part as a statement, but it was a question, so he waited for confirmation. Hermione sniffed and nodded; Madam Pomfrey had told her she had been given a sedative potion, probably one that had dissolved in whatever she had been given to drink. Hermione had no recollection of drinking anything, however.

Harry spoke first. “I know you think it was Malfoy, but it couldn’t have been him, Hermione—not that I’m saying he could be totally innocent in all of this,” Harry said softly, but with conviction.

“Harry! I am not daft! It was him! I remember looking into his eyes! They are very….unmistakable! I remember everything clearly! He made the Room what it was on purpose and used a potion and a drug on me without my consent!” she said indignantly. “He raped me,” she cried out, admitting the truth to herself.

Harry listened patiently, tears starting to well up in his striking green eyes at the pain etched on Hermione’s face and manifested in her voice. He nodded, acknowledging her feelings.

“He was in the Library….the whole time. I saw it on the Map. I’ve been watching his movements on the Map for a while now….The Map doesn’t lie, Hermione,” he whispered just loud enough for Hermione to hear, then pulled her into a hug, as Hermione wept.

Ten minutes later, they pulled apart. Harry looked at Hermione expectantly, waiting for her to voice her conclusions about what had actually occurred. She did not disappoint; _But then,_ Harry thought, _she never does._

Hermione knew that the Map never lied; she knew Harry was right. But, she felt, it was just so easy to blame Malfoy, and with the Map’s input, she knew she couldn’t. She further knew, and was loathe to admit, that she’d been raped by a stranger—a stranger who had gone to great lengths to deceive her.

“Someone used Polyjuice potion to look like Malfoy,” she whispered.

Harry slowly nodded, feeling his gut wrench. “Do you know who would do that to you, Hermione?” he asked gently.

Hermione gave it some thought then sadly said, “I have no idea….” She reigned in her drifting thoughts. “Harry….I have something else to tell you.” Tears were pooling in her eyes. She told him about her Prophecy and the results of the Conception Analysis Charm Madam Pomfrey had performed on her. 

The trolley came by as Hermione finished her tale, and Harry bought Hermione her favorite sweets; they sat in silence, only minimally enjoying their treats, for a long time.

Hermione broke the silence and said, sniffling, “I’m afraid the Prophecy is ruined now. I’m afraid for you, Ron, and me. I’m afraid of what will Dumbledore say. I’m afraid of what my parents will say. I’m afraid to have a baby, Harry!” She broke out in fresh tears. Her face was red, her eyes swollen. Harry’s heart broke for her.

“Don’t be afraid, Hermione. I’ll be with you through this, no matter what.”

It took Harry the rest of the train ride back to London to come to terms with everything that had happened and with everything that was still to happen. _She is only seventeen! She should not have had this happen to her, Prophecy or not! She should not have this burden to bear! Well, neither should I, but that’s not likely to change, either._ Not wanting to upset Hermione further, he kept his anger inside of him, vowing to find and then curse whomever it was who had hurt Hermione.

As London began to come into view out the compartment windows, there came a knock on the compartment door. Hermione turned her head from the door, hastily wiping her tears away. Harry quickly wiped his eyes, too, but could do nothing about his swollen eyes and face, before standing and unlocking and opening the door.

“Whoa, _Potter._ There are no Dementors here, so what is it that’s got you so…” Draco said in a pompous voice, trailing off when he noticed Hermione’s unmistakable unruly, curly hair (looking more wild today than usual) behind Harry. He couldn’t see her face, but he noticed that she tensed at the sound of Draco’s voice.

“Give this to Granger,” Draco ordered and then walked away. Harry handed the parchment to Hermione. She read it aloud and then said, dryly, “Well, Happy Christmas to me. Harry, will you carry back my reply?”

()

Harry had decided, in the hours while holding Hermione in their compartment, not to go directly to the Burrow for Christmas as had been his plan; he went home with Hermione (needless to say Ron was furious with Hermione). Harry stayed a few days to include Christmas Day and Boxing day. He was a welcome comfort to Hermione, even making her laugh a few times. They watched their favorite Muggle television shows and movies, played Muggle board and card games, played outside in the snow, and had family meals with Hermione’s parents. It was like old times, Hermione thought. Hermione’s parents were thrilled that Harry was visiting; they had always wanted more children, especially a son (not that they had ever said that to Hermione), and Harry had become close to that for them. Harry craved a loving family, especially now with Sirius gone, and he had come to think of Hermione’s family as his just as he thought the same of Ron’s.

Stealing moments away from her parents, Hermione and Harry talked much about the Prophecy. Harry had questions, much like the ones Hermione had asked of Dumbledore when she’d first learned of it. Hermione answered them all for him. Neither knew, and both wished they did know, how Hermione’s baby would accomplish what the Prophecy foretold. _How would its birth have any impact on the War? How would a mere baby help defeat Voldemort?_ They made guesses, but neither of them could come up with any solid answers. Hermione felt that if she knew the answer, she’d be able to handle what she’d just gone through (and what was to come). She knew that dealing with a pregnancy at this time in her life would take tremendous amount of fortitude, and right now she felt faint-hearted and cowardly. Not usually one to cry, she was not happy when her lack of answers forced tears from her eyes.

 _Maybe Madam Pomfrey’s exam was wrong_ , she thought hopefully on a particularly emotional day. Clearly in the Denial Stage of Grief, she insisted that she make a run to the local drugstore. Harry accompanied her, not knowing what she was going for. He bought chips, candy bars, and soda (snacks that were nowhere to be found in the Grangers’ pantry) and was thoroughly embarrassed when he saw Hermione (looking as embarrassed as he was) walking toward the check out with three pregnancy tests. Though she handled it with all of the courage a seventeen-year-old could, she made Harry checkout separately from her, pretending she didn’t know him, so he wouldn’t feel the embarrassment or have to endure the pitying and disparaging looks she was enduring.

She was devastated when she learned from the instructions with the tests that she had to wait about two weeks to take them. She threw the tests in the cabinet in her en suite bathroom and cried—again—on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry, wanting to help his friend in any way he could, suggested that having a family would be wonderful for Hermione, and that he thought having someone to love and to be loved in return was everything. Hermione certainly understood his point of view—she had wonderful parents who loved her more than life itself.

Hermione worked herself into a tizzy, thinking about motherhood, and how she would finish school next year after having a baby, and how she would afford a baby with no way of earning an income while in school. Harry had no answer except that he had faith that she could do anything. “You’ll be a brilliant mother, Hermione,” he told her confidently.

“Harry,” Hermione said timidly after a bit, “What’s it going to be like when everybody at Hogwarts realizes I’m pregnant?”

Pregnant girls were unheard of at Hogwarts, although Madam Pomfrey had gently told Hermione in the Hospital Wing after administering her Pregnancy exam that, _“You’re not the first, sweet girl, and you won’t be the last.”_

Years ago, Hermione had been told by her grandmother that girls who found themselves ‘in the family way’ in the Muggle world were sometimes removed from school when their pregnancy began to show. She was terrified that would happen to her in the Wizarding world, and then she’d be alone in the Wizarding world without a complete education or she’d be relegated to live without magic in the Muggle world with her parents and uneducated still.

Poor Harry had no answer for Hermione except, “Hermione, I’ll stand by you through anything, even if the whole of Hogwarts is against you. Just as you have done for me.”

Hermione knew that was true; she’d stuck by Harry through everything, and she knew her best friend (Harry, anyway, if not Ron, too) would reciprocate—not just out of duty, but because of the exceptional integrity Harry possessed.

“And, Harry, Madam Pomfrey said the baby will be due sometime in the early part of September, so I may have to miss the start of the term,” she said in a tremulous voice, and Harry could tell she was getting worked up again. He promptly took her to the market to buy ice cream and chocolate; _It always makes her feel better when she’s grouchy during her ‘time of the month,’_ he reasoned _._

It worked.

“Poor Harry,” she told him later as they watched her favorite movie and indulged in her favorite treats. “What a horrible holiday this must be for you, being stuck here with me moping and crying on you.”

Harry just shook his head earnestly and hugged her to his side.

()

On the thirtieth, Hermione helped Harry pack up his things from the guest room. He was to go to the Burrow for the remainder of the Holiday, which was about ten days. Hermione could see how excited he was to being going to see Ginny, and she was happy for him, but she was sorely going to miss her best friend. She wasn’t looking forward to being lonely at times during the week ahead; her parents, being dentists and also the owners of their small dental practice, had to work a few days of Hermione’s school holiday. But, Hermione thought in an attempt to lift her spirits, she and her mum were going to go shopping after the Weasleys came to pick up Harry. Hermione knew she couldn’t trust herself to be around the twins yet, so when the doorbell rang, Harry hugged her goodbye (Hermione reluctantly let go of him) and answered the door for her. Hermione was standing behind the door between the foyer and the kitchen, expecting to hear the raucous voices of Fred and George as they greeted Harry.

Instead, she heard an unnaturally long silence then, “What the bloody hell are _you_ doing here?” Harry said in a shocked voice. Hermione was about to scold Harry for swearing when she heard,

“I could ask you the same thing, _Potter_.”

Hermione, already knowing to whom that voice belonged, came into the foyer to prevent a fight. Malfoy’s pale, pointed face was scowling at Harry; Harry’s face was turned to Hermione and was wrought with worry.

“Malfoy? Didn’t you get my message? I said the _thirty-first_ ,” she scolded then turning quickly to Harry to explain, “It’s the tutoring thing.”

She had expected to see Draco— _tomorrow_ —to help him with his report (and to phish for information regarding Draco’s suspected death Eater status for Harry). She had known since the train ride to London from Hogsmeade that she’d being seeing him soon, and she knew it wasn’t REALLY him who had raped her, but seeing him now was making her experience some post-traumatic stress symptoms. While Hermione was speechless at the moment, Harry and Draco were not, and they were trading insults that Hermione really wasn’t registering.

Hearing footfalls on the steps up to the front porch, Hermione, Harry and Draco turned toward the sound and noticed that Fred and George were now standing a few steps below Draco. The look of surprise on the twins’ faces lasted the length of time as it took to bat and eyelash, and then their famous, mischievous, identical grins were plastered on their identical faces. Considering _Draco Malfoy_ was standing with _Harry Potter_ at _Hermione Granger’s_ house, Hermione couldn’t really fault the boys for taking advantage of the situation to have some fun, but just seeing them turned her irrational nervousness at seeing Malfoy into anger at the creators of the potion that was used on her.

“So the third part to your Gryffindor trio finally realized how superfluous he is, then?” Draco asked with raised brows and a smirk. Then in a conspiring whisper, he said, “Does The Weasel know he was not invited to your sleepover with Potter, Granger?”

Harry knew swift action was needed before Hermione did or said something she’d regret. He also wanted to protect her; he felt so guilty, however irrationally so, for letting her be raped. So Harry said quickly as he gently moved Hermione away from the twins and Malfoy, “Malfoy, Hermione’s note did tell you the thirty-first, which is tomorrow, so sod off. Fred, George, I just need my trunk and I’m ready to apparate with you to the Burrow.” Harry strode to his trunk.

“Oi, oh Chosen One,” said Fred. “You are a wizard. Why don’t you just use Magic?”

“Oh, Fred,” said George. “You forget that our ickle Harrykins isn’t of age yet—”

“—and he can’t use Magic without incurring the wrath of the Ministry,” finished Fred. “Well, then, The Boy Who Can’t Use Magic—”

“Let we REAL Wizards help you with that trunk,” George said.

“Be careful!” Hermione hissed. “This is Muggle London, you prats!”

“Just hold it with me and we’ll apparate from here,” said Harry to the twins. Realizing Malfoy hadn’t moved, Harry said menacingly, “Why are you still here, Malfoy?”

Draco, who stood leaned up against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, smirked arrogantly and rolled his eyes. “Goodbye _Potter_. Have fun at the _Weasel Hole_.”

“If you so much as _think_ about calling Hermione a you-know-what, I’ll hex you within an inch of your life, Malfoy. And I’ll do worse if you do so much as put a finger on her.”

Draco looked shocked. “Why in the name of all things unholy would you think I’d do that, _Potter_?”

“Right. Let’s go,” Harry said to the twins. “Hermione, constant vigilance, yeah?” He then tilted his head toward the doorway.

Hermione, who was biting her nails, nodded. “Right. Malfoy, _tomorrow_ ,” she reiterated and closed the door on him as he looked like he was about to protest.

When Hermione her mother backed her car out of the driveway just a few minutes later, the front porch was devoid of Malfoy. He was nowhere to be seen, and Hermione let out a huge sigh of relief as she grinned.

()

“Mione, are you sure your new clothes are the right size? They seemed a bit big on you, honey,” Hermione’s mother said as they unpacked the car of all of their purchases. Hermione had missed hearing her mother calling her ‘Mione’; she was the only one who did, and it made Hermione feel special and loved, like she always had felt when she was a little girl.

I _’ll have to keep that in mind when I’m ‘the mom.’_

“It’s the new style, Mum,” Hermione said, as she silently berated herself for lying to her mother. She had intentionally bought a size up from her normal size in preparation for an expanding belly and breasts, _let alone anything else that may get bigger….I really must find a book about that before too long,_ she mentally grumbled. She carried her bags from the car and into the house, setting them down in the hallway off of the kitchen before entering the kitchen to help her mother start dinner.

Her father, Charles, a bulky man with brown eyes and brown hair, was sitting at the kitchen table facing her. A thin blonde man was sitting across from her father, only the back of his head facing Hermione. “Oh, you’re back, Hermione. Your friend has been waiting for you for hours— but we have had tea and a rather nice visit, haven’t we, Draco?” Her dad said, smiling, to his guest. Hermione’s mouth fell open in disbelief as panic and horror started to set in.

“Absolutely, sir. I haven’t had such a nice chat with tea in a while,” Draco said to Mr. Granger, attempting (and succeeding) at an angelic, boy-next-door voice, which Hermione knew was only an act to anger her further.

Then Draco turned around, with a smirk on his face, winking at Hermione. _He just winked at me!_ Hermione thought, scandalized, but blushing nonetheless. 

“Good to finally see you home, Granger,” Draco said. Hermione could not find words.

“Well, Granger, let’s get working on _our_ report, shall we?”

Hermione led Draco into the study off of the foyer, keeping the door open.

“What are you doing in my house?” she hissed quietly so her parents wouldn’t be alerted to her impolite treatment of a guest in their home. “How long have you been here? Did you go snooping around while I was gone? Did you go into my room?” Hermione’s voice was nearly a shrill during the last sentence. It took all of her strength at that moment for Hermione to keep in the forefront of her mind the fact that her attacker had only _looked_ like Malfoy and that Malfoy really hadn’t done anything to deserve her fear or anger (recently, anyway). She was, however, extremely annoyed by his literal invasion of her privacy. 

“Calm down, Granger,” Draco said irritably. “I walked around Hampstead for a few hours and then came back, and by that time your father had come home. And no, I wouldn’t dream of going into _your_ bedroom. Get your mind out of the gutter, Granger.” He said the last sentence in a suggestive tone while he wagged his eyebrows, but then flashed her a smirk.

He had, in fact, wandered the house and gone into Hermione’s bedroom while Mr. Granger had been on a long telephone call with relatives. And although he could not have conceived that his innuendo was (and the knowledge that he had been in her bedroom would be) distressing to Hermione, they were—given her recent experiences with a Draco-look-alike in a bedroom.

“ _Why_ , Malfoy,” she asked with clenched teeth and fists, “were you in my house, chatting with my father and having tea? I told you we would meet up _tomorrow._ ”

Draco feigned a look of innocence and said matter-of-factly, “My report is on Muggle Family Life, Granger. I was immersing myself in the Muggle home, which is, as you have told me, the center of the Muggle family life. Now, let’s get to it, shall we?”

That evening, Hermione’s parents invited Draco to stay for dinner. Draco seemed at tad uneasy at first, but he surprised Hermione by complimenting dinner and asking many questions about the Grangers’ home and the elder Grangers’ jobs. He had never heard of dentistry….or doctors….or electric instruments used to clean and pull teeth; he looked repulsed (which made Hermione irritated).

After dinner, Hermione suggested they play board games, thinking Malfoy would feel too superior for that and would excuse himself and go home.

“Granger, that sounds like a jolly way to spend the evening, and I’d certainly love to join in,” ( _Ah ha, here’s where he’ll make an excuse to leg it out of here!)_ “as I could learn a lot for _our_ report about Muggle family home life that way—that is, if you, Dr. and Dr. Granger don’t object to me intruding upon more of your evening?” he asked in an agreeable tone, politely using his dinner napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth and smiling.

She had never heard him speak so charmingly; she knew, of course, that it was all an act, evidenced by the tiny smirk and sideways glance he gave her. _Slimy Slytherin._ And she couldn’t help but agree that he was right that his report would benefit from staying for games. _Git._

“Oh, Draco, please call us Mr. and Mrs. Granger….and we’re happy to include you! We won’t have to be a threesome then,” Jean said excitedly. “Mione, grab the four-player games from the top shelf of the game cabinet.” Draco leered (at Hermione and unnoticed by Jean) at Jean’s choice of words, causing Hermione to roll her eyes and mutter, “Oh, grow up.”

As Hermione’s family were game-lovers, and they rarely had the opportunity to play 4-player games, they had a nice time. “We had so much fun playing on teams while Harry was here, and we’re so glad we have another chance to do so,” Jean said, smiling at Draco. Draco nodded politely at Mrs. Granger, but his face looked pinched as he smiled. _The mention of Harry’s name_ , Hermione realized and smiled; after that, she tried to bring Harry’s name into the conversation whenever she could. Draco’s reactions did not disappoint, much to Hermione’s delight.

Draco was unfamiliar with each game they played, but picked up the rules easily and seemed to enjoy himself—as much as Hermione had ever seen him enjoy anything besides emotionally torturing someone, that is.

()

The next day, right on time at 1 ‘o clock (he had declined to come earlier as he ‘wanted a lie-in for once’), Draco arrived at Hermione’s home, ready for tutelage. Hermione’s parents, having taken that day (and several others) off from their thriving dental practice to spend with Hermione, were somewhat miffed that she couldn’t devote all of her time to them, but they were not ones to impede education or anything academic. Hermione was not afraid or nervous to be around Malfoy (any more than the usual, that is) after her horrible incident with his ‘look-alike’ while her parents were home.

It was all working out well; she thought by the end of today or tomorrow, Malfoy would have enough to complete his report. Tutoring Malfoy wasn’t without some perks, either; Hermione took advantage of having Draco around _._ She made Draco experience ‘the Muggle way’ every chance she could. She made him help her with laundry, shoveling snow, cleaning, cooking, taking out the rubbish, and grocery shopping.

He surprised her by wanting to clean his teeth “the Muggle way.” His parents were over the moon at that, pulling out any and all samples, pamphlets, and dental tools they had on hand to show off. Charles even went so far as to invite Draco to the office for a ‘complimentary cleaning.’ Hermione laughed out loud as she envisioned Draco in the dental chair and her parents coming at him with sharp and whirring dental instruments. The other three looked at her like she was barmy, but she kept laughing until she felt tears leaking.

Hermione had enjoyed forcing Draco to help around the house the best she could, but she stopped putting Draco to work after she had endured a nightmare while making him help her wash the lunch dishes. Hermione made him wash the dishes by hand, even though the Grangers’ kitchen had a dishwasher. _He doesn’t know that, though,_ Hermione thought with an evil smirk on her face—and even letting out a snort—as she had not yet explained to him what a dishwasher was. He was drying the clean dishes (as he had refused to get his hands dirty washing them) when she noticed his hands for the first time. They were long, slender, and, of course, pale.

 _Seeker’s hands,_ she thought. Then she thought of him in his Quidditch uniform, holding the Snitch….then of his hands holding her….then of his body without the Quidditch uniform—naked! She felt herself blushing and feeling hotter than she should be—even while washing dishes—and so she quickly turned her thoughts to Harry’s Uncle Vernon instead.

 _That did the trick_ , she thought as her mind and body were repulsed by the thoughts of the rotund man. But, still she wondered about Draco and Quidditch; why wasn’t he playing this year? So, she asked him.

He seemed nervous for a second, but then said, “I find it more important to focus my efforts on academics rather than childish games, Granger.”

 _I definitely agree with that_ , she thought, but still she had a feeling that Draco wasn’t telling the truth. Draco turned the tables on her, asking Hermione a personal question next.

“So _Potter_ stayed here for Christmas….That damned—er— _blooming_ poltergeist Peeves was saying ‘Potty loves Looney’ before we left for holiday—or was he here because _Potty loves YOU_?” he probed in a serious tone, and then in a low tone he asked, “Did you let _him_ into your room?” His face told her he was teasing.

Hermione would have laughed at the absurdity of Draco’s presumptions and innuendo, but she thought instead of _why_ Harry had stayed with her, and she became too sad to laugh, falling silent as she worked to compose herself.

“Harry is my best friend, nothing more. I’ve told you that before, Malfoy.”

“It appears that you aren’t quite happy with that arrangement, Granger. You know, you two would probably have adorable, black-and-bushy-haired tots—with that _famous_ scar, too, quite possibly,” Draco said in a melodic tone, taunting her again.

Hermione was torn between arguing the point that the scar wouldn’t be hereditary and allowing herself to dwell on the idea of her having ‘tots.’ Instead, she gathered up her composure and used her quick wit to silence Draco on the subject.

“It’s exactly what I want _and_ need, _Malfoy_. I find it more important to focus my efforts on academics rather than _childish_ , romantic _games_ , ” she responded, repeating words he had recently used, in a tone that allowed no room for argument.

“Touche, Granger.”

Hermione grinned.

She regretted her decision to wash dishes with Draco after his bothersome personal questions regarding her and Harry and twenty minutes filled with the spoiled brat’s complaints about being ‘coerced into servant work’ and comments like ‘Haven’t Muggles yet figured out a better way to do this?’ Hermione happily showed the dishwasher to him after the dishes had all been washed by hand.

The elder Grangers invited him to stay for dinner again that night. After dinner, it was Draco who suggested the idea for entertainment.

“Mrs. Granger, you have an excellent pianoforte in your lounge. Do you play?” He didn’t know it, but he was complimenting Jean’s favorite material possession, her baby grand piano. _What is it with these Slytherin instincts?_

“Well, thank you, Draco. That piano was my grandmother’s, so it is it an antique, and I love it. I do play,” Jean admitted smiling. “Hermione plays, too. And you, Draco?”

Hermione was on edge in an instant, silently praying no one would ask her to play. Draco replied to Mrs. Granger, “No, I don’t play. Yes, she’s told me that she wanted to stick her nose in a book rather than practice, and so she’s not very proficient.” _He remembers?_

Jean agreed. “Well, she really _should_ practice more, but I understand that it’s impossible while she’s at school, as Hogwarts has no piano, and I know how busy her studies keep her.”

Hermione went red; Draco smirked at her.

“Mione, you did play well for us and Harry on Christmas, Moppet,” Jean said, smiling, encouragingly to Hermione. Hermione went redder as she saw Draco’s eyebrows rise to his hairline and his eyes light up. _No, no, no…._

“Well, Mrs. Granger, I think that to experience this part of Muggle family life would be quite beneficial to my report, and I’d love to hear you and _Miss_ Granger play, if you wouldn’t mind it terribly?”

So, Mrs. Granger, who loved an audience while playing the piano, and who had become quite proficient over the last few years, played a piece for Draco. And then, of course, Hermione’s parents prodded her to play a piece, and Draco reminded her of the Muggle saying, ‘practice makes perfect’ (she narrowed her eyes and flared her nostrils at him over that). Hermione tried to make her excuses, but her loving and supportive parents kept encouraging her until she realized it was pointless to decline. She was fuming! It had been one thing to play after not having practiced in a long time for Harry and her parents, but for _Malfoy_ it was definitely upsetting. She played her piece, one she had practiced and played well at Christmas, but she was so self-conscious that she didn’t play it as well this time. She wanted to die right there.

Draco was very complimentary of Mrs. Grangers playing; in fact, he was sickly-sweet, in Hermione’s opinion, the whole day and evening. She knew that her parents would just chalk it up to Draco possessing above-average manners, but she knew better.

After Draco had left for the night, Charles said to his daughter in an astounded tone, “Draco sure has been rather pampered by his parents, hasn’t he?”

“You have no idea,” Hermione grumbled in response.

“That hasn’t affected his manners, though. I am rather impressed by those,” her father commented, to which Hermione muttered, “So am I,” _having never seen them before_. She went to bed right gutted.

()

On the third day ( _and the last day!_ Hermione thought excitedly)of tutoring, Draco was forced to show up at her home at 9am. He didn’t like it, but because of Jean, he couldn’t decline.

The night before, as Hermione and Draco were firming up their plan for the last day of tutoring, Jean had interrupted to remind Hermione that she had a prior commitment. Hermione was committed to babysitting, and neither elder Granger was willing to do it for her.

 _Good to know now that my parents aren’t thrilled to be with small children and babies_ , she thought morosely.

Hermione normally liked babysitting, but an internal battle was raging in her mind, pragmatism vs. apprehension; the normally pragmatic side of her would have seen this as an opportunity to prepare for motherhood. However, she was feeling very wary of being around children at the moment; it just would force her to face a reality she would rather ignore. Considering all of this is why she missed the opportunity to argue against Jean’s suggestion that Hermione and Draco babysit together. _It’s perfect for your report, Draco!_ Jean had said, knowing Draco was an only child and assuming (correctly) that he had very limited experience with small children.

Hermione also missed Draco’s subsequent acquiescence to Jean’s plan.

So, on the third day of ‘Operation Muggle-ize Malfoy’ (as Charles had dubbed it), Draco arrived at 9am sharp with a large cup of over-priced coffee in his hands. _He didn’t even bring one for me! Not that I drink coffee….but still!_

“Are you sure about this, Malfoy?” she asked with a fake smile on his face, hoping he’d think she was being sarcastic and hoping he’d say yes and not back out.

_What is wrong with me? I actually want to spend time with Malfoy!_

She didn’t want be alone with the children—or, rather, with her feelings regarding becoming a mother soon.

“Do you think a Slytherin would be intimated by mere children, Granger?” he asked superciliously.

“Ok, then, let’s be off,” she muttered.

()

The children, a three-year-old boy named Ethan (he was adorable with his light brown hair and brown eyes and tiny freckles on his nose), and a sixth-month-old girl, Elyse (who had light blonde hair and blue eyes and adorable dimples), were very well behaved. Ethan was shy around Draco and clingy to Hermione at first. Ethan soon warmed to Draco, even though Draco spoke to him like he was one of his peers (though politely and without swearing, per Hermione’s demand on threat of hex) and not a preschooler (which made Hermione laugh). Draco refused to have anything to do with Elyse.

“Right. Divide and conquer, Granger,” he’d said as he’d left her with Elyse and headed with Ethan toward his toys.

_For heaven’s sake, his father is LUCIUS MALFOY, a man in consort with the darkest wizard ever, but yet he is afraid of a baby!_

Hermione had to change all of Elyse’s soiled nappies, and so retaliated at Draco by making him take out the soiled nappies (even though they didn’t smell very bad) to the rubbish can outside, telling him that unless they went out the house would smell right foul.

 _Nice one!_ she congratulated herself on convincing him so easily.

Hermione looked around Elyse’s nursery in awe.The room was decorated stylishly, but not lavishly. The baby girl’s little clothes hanging in her closet looked so darling. Hermione imagined washing the clothes and hanging them up and then later dressing Elyse in her adorable little outfits and bows in her hair. Elyse smelled so good, and snuggling with her in her rocking chair and reading a book to her was comforting. She imagined giving her own child a bath and dressing her in footie jammies and tucking her into bed, singing her lullabies as she drifted off to sleep.

 _Maybe this would be nice,_ she thought.

 _Yeah,_ another ‘voice’ in her head told her, _this would be nice—in about ten years!_

Looking around the room and in all of the drawers and the closet, she realized, _There’s so much a baby needs!_

She cringed as she began to think of all that having a child entails—everything Hermione would have to buy for the baby’s room and all of the clothes and toys and nappies! _Good heavens, how will I afford all of the nappies?!_ Hermione quickly distracted her mind by playing with Elyse (not that it was a one-hundred-percent effective solution).

Elyse was a happy baby, in Hermione’s estimation, but she didn’t like to be put down, and she cried if she were. That was proving to be a problem as Hermione attempted to make lunch.

 _Why am I the one doing this? Oh, right, because Malfoy would starve without house elves_!

She needed Draco’s help, but was reluctant to ask for it, and he was oblivious to her besides, busy as he was setting up a huge toy train track for Ethan in the lounge. Hermione was holding Elyse with her left arm only on her left hip, using her right arm to prepare lunch; it was near impossible and very time-consuming. Ethan needed to be put down for his nap in thirty minutes (the kids’ parents were very strict on schedules and meals and snacks and such), and Hermione could feel that a nappy change was in short order for Miss Elyse.

A shrill wail sounded behind her, and Hermione jumped so much that she almost dropped Elyse. She turned to see Ethan standing by the kitchen table, rubbing his head. She ran to him, still holding the baby, and hugged him to her as he screeched in her ear that he had hit his head on the table. He’d been running around the table with his airplane, he told her (though she got the important details mostly from his explanatory gestures rather than from his words as he was barely intelligible through all of his crying). Hermione realized that she had been so focused on trying to get the lunch ready that she’d not paid him the proper attention nor given him the warning that he may get hurt running around and that he should stop.

“I’m sorry, E, I should have told you not to do that,” she cooed back, using her special nickname for Ethan, and feeling guilty. Elyse begun to wail, too, and Hermione barely heard Draco when he hollered from the lounge for her to “ _make those beastly moppets belt up before I go to spare.”_

Singing softly to the two little ones, Hermione calmed both tots down after a few minutes, which had seemed so much longer to her as their wails were a cacophony on either side of her that she couldn’t escape.

After a nappy change for Elyse, Hermione returned to the kitchen. There remained only twenty minutes before Ethan’s naptime.

“Mione,” Ethan said as he looked up at her with his innocent brown eyes, “I’m fewy hungy.” Hermione sighed and nodded, bidding Ethan to go back to Draco to play with his trains. Holding Elyse (there was no putting that girl down), she attempted lunch once more, this time opting to make the easiest thing she could put together instead of cooking a meal.

Finally, lunch was ready and Hermione was carrying it to the table when Ethan tapped Hermione on the thigh and said, “Mione, my tummy huwts.”

Hermione nodded absently, not looking at him. “I know, sweet boy. Lunch is ready.”

“Mione, do whees cookies haf peanud budduh in dem? I fink dey haf peanud budduh in dem.” _Peanut Butter!?_

Hermione’s eyes went wide as she looked at the peanut butter sandwich cookie in Ethan’s hand and his swollen lips and blotchy face and neck.

“Shite!” she shrieked as she rushed over to the refrigerator for Ethan’s epi-pen. It wasn’t in its usual spot. _Shite!_ Being obliged to use one hand to pull items from the refrigerator was thwarting Hermione’s efforts, so she gently set Elyse on the floor, really not even hearing the baby girl’s subsequent wails due to her own rattled state. She glanced at Ethan; he was wheezing now. Hermione rapidly cleared some food from the fridge and then glanced back at Ethan; he looked very lethargic. She gently forced him to lie down on the floor and then continued her searching for the epi-pen. On her next exam, she saw that his lips were turning blue.

The floor was littered with food items when Draco appeared in the doorway at that moment.

“Granger, what the bloody he—” he began before Hermione spun around toward him and interrupted him.

“Give me your wand, Malfoy!” she yelled, frantic and practically begging and holding out her wand hand.

“Use your own,” he exclaimed in annoyance and astonishment that she would be demanding anything of him, let alone his wand.

“I don’t have it! I don’t bring it here!” Hermione whined. “He’s going to stop breathing unless I find his medicine!” she yelled, gesturing to Ethan. Draco looked at Ethan among the mess on the floor and his eyes went wider than Hermione had ever seen them.

“Now, Malfoy!” she yelled in her most frantic tone.

Draco immediately handed her his wand, which he’d kept up his left shirtsleeve, but regarded her quizzically.

“Accio Epi-pen,” Hermione shouted clearly. A rustling was heard from a cabinet. A second after, the cabinet door opened and out flew a small vial with multicolored labels and stoppers. Hermione’s hand was open and she caught it deftly, her other hand poised to removed the cap.

“What’s going on?” Draco demanded, picking up Elyse and holding her away from himself as if she were a soiled nappy, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

Hermione positioned herself next to Ethan and jabbed the needle into his thigh through his pants. She injected the epinephrine into Ethan’s slim little leg and looked into his innocent eyes and precious little face and sobbed hard. “Malfoy,” she said through tears, “dial 999 on the telephone.” Then she pleaded and prayed, “Please be okay! Please be okay!” while waiting for Ethan’s pink hue to return and for his breathing to become normal.

“Uh, Granger, I don’t know what you want from me, here,” Draco said, still holding Elyse as if she were a bomb. At least she’d stopped her screaming, Hermione thought as she looked up and noticed them. She groaned in frustration and finished rubbing the medicine into Ethan’s muscle. _Ugh, ignorant, spoiled wizard! Ron’s a pureblood, too, but even he knows how to make a telephone call!_

“Never mind, Malfoy. I’ll do it,” she said resignedly as she stood and grabbed the telephone. She made her call to EMS and then to the children’s mother, hearing Ethan calling out for her when his throat opened up.

“I’m so, so, sorry, E!” she cried out, using her special nickname for him, and starting to weep again, now that her phone calls were concluded. “I’m so, so, so sorry!”

“Mynee!” Ethan gasped. His eyes held fear in them, and Hermione felt incredibly guilty and like her heart was being squeezed by the giant hands of a troll.

After a few minutes, he whimpered, “I was so hungy and I wanted to twy one of Dad’s cookies. Mum and Dad nefuh wet me haf any!”

Hermione was about to nod and speak when Draco addressed Ethan.

“Well, maybe your brilliant parents shouldn’t keep them in the house at all,” Draco spat, still holding Elyse at arms’ length, “seeing as they almost killed you.”

Hermione frowned at him for speaking ill of Ethan’s parents in front of the tyke, even though she completely agreed with his logic. Still, feeling so much empathy for the tyke and immense relief that she hadn’t had to just witness him dying, she merely said, “I know, buddy. It’s not your fault.”

Ethan lay in Hermione’s arms, recovering and calming, until the EMS arrived. The children’s mother was on her way to the hospital, and as Hermione couldn’t leave Draco to tend to Elyse nor should she take Elyse with her to the hospital, she had to say a quick goodbye to a crying Ethan, who was devastated that he would be with strangers in an ambulance. Hermione lost it again; she was actually wailing as the ambulance drove away. She walked back into the house and took Elyse from Draco’s reluctant hold.

 _She looks barmy, certifiably insane_ , Draco thought; Hermione’s eyes were wide and her demeanor extra anxious.

Hermione carried the tot to her room. Draco followed and watched a bit, unbeknownst to Hermione, thinking Hermione deranged and a little concerned for the rugrat she was caring for. But all he saw was how she cradled the baby to her, rocking her to sleep, and singing some song Draco couldn’t identify. Satisfied that Hermione was not going to commit baby-cide, Draco left the doorway to the nursery.

The baby hadn’t eaten, but Hermione was too emotionally exhausted to care. She sang and rocked until Elyse succumbed to sleep, and then laid the sleeping baby in her cot and returned to the kitchen to clean up.

She had quite a shock when she saw that all of the items that had been littered upon the floor where no longer there and that Draco sat at the kitchen bar counter, eating. He caught Hermione’s look of surprise and haughtily said, “Granger, I’m fairly adept at magic, you know,” as he brandished his wand in one hand, gesturing to the refrigerator.

Hermione nodded her thanks. Draco then made Hermione explain about the “Muggle vial of non-magical potion” and the cookies that caused “the brat to almost die.” Hermione rolled her eyes, but explained about allergic reactions and anaphylaxis and the Muggle medicine to combat them. She then thought how odd it was that Malfoy had never heard of allergies or life-threatening allergic reactions; surely there were Magical people with allergies? Or, maybe Draco’s lack of knowledge on the topic simply stemmed from his upbringing being too sheltered and him being so egotistical that he’d never had the chance to encounter the concept of life-threatening allergies.

When Draco seemed satisfied with Hermione’s explanation, he said, “So, Granger, as those cookies aren’t poisoned, I should finish them off for the tot’s sake, then, right?” Hermione smiled a little and waved her hand as if to tell him to help himself.

When the Ethan and Elyse’s mother returned from the hospital, Hermione and Draco left the house after Hermione had refused to be paid for her service. Draco was upset with Hermione for not allowing HIM to accept money for babysitting. As they walked toward the Grangers’ home, tears fell from Hermione’s big brown eyes out of humiliation and anger at herself for what had occurred on her watch. She sniffled and wiped her cheeks frequently as the cold air stung them more than usual in winter due to her tears. She didn’t even care that she was crying in front of Draco Malfoy.

Draco looked very unnerved until he abruptly said, “I think I can handle the report from here, Granger….I’ve had enough of Muggle life today. See you at school.” And with that, he loped away down the street toward the Tube station.

Hermione cried the whole, solitary way home. She felt like she was the scum of the Earth that Voldemort and his followers claimed that she was. _I can’t do this! I can’t be a mother! Today proved that! I’ll end up hurting my own child, trying to save myself and Ron and Harry! And why should MY baby have to be in jeopardy at its own mother’s hands for that Snake-faced monster to be defeated? It won’t have a father. I’ll be its only parent—and a disastrous one at that! How fair is that to a child? I can’t be a mother! I won’t do it!_

()

As Draco walked (and walked and walked) to the station, he had a lot to keep himself occupied. He realized that this ‘Mudblood’ was made of much stronger stuff than he had known before; that had been made quite clear to him as he watched her take charge of the emergent situation of the allergic reaction. He marveled at how she had saved Ethan….how she maintained poise under pressure, even though it was clear that she was terrified….how she knew just what to do. Draco noted that Hermione was a very capable person in the Muggle world, as well as in the Wizarding world. Obviously, he’d known she was a talented witch before today, but now….he was more in awe (and jealous)—and irritated because of it.

Furthermore, Hermione’s ability to use his wand—a wand that was not only resistant to her but whose composition was tremendously different from her own—said loads about her magical abilities. ‘Stolen’ or not, they were impressive—more impressive than he had realized from observing her at school the past five years, in fact. The more he had seen Granger’s work ethic over the past five years, the more he had come to believe that her magic had not been stolen at all. He knew that _this_ ‘mudblood,’ at least, came by her Magical abilities honestly, and her natural ability and her determination made for one formidable witch.

He was even more resentful and hateful toward Potter after this day with Granger—after realizing how much more special she was than he had previously known.

He had an errant thought during his long trek back to the Manor that he tried to squash but couldn’t: how many other Muggleborns had he been wrong about—and what else about Granger had he been wrong about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave me a note with your thoughts!  
> I want to say that Hermione was still troubled by her rape even after she found out who did NOT rape her; the fact that it wasn't her mortal enemy does not make it ok for hermione! Rape is never ok, and I apologize if this Hermione appears to be 'ok' with it (she's not!)  
> this was another long chapter, but the rest should be shorter as we progress into the story, FYI.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Hols continue, and the new term brings a Ball with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read this story! (I have 21 chapters complete so far, so updates will go quickly for a while!)  
> I apologize in advance for any formatting issues; i'm still getting used to AO3!

Hermione was ecstatic when her tutelage of Malfoy was over and she could do what _she_ _wanted_ to do. However, every day of the rest of the Christmas holiday, Draco still came to Hermione’s home. EVERY DAY. She tried to get rid of him by just shutting the door in his face (or not opening the door at all); she had underestimated how annoying he could be, however—so annoying that she was afraid of her neighbors calling the police. Telling him that she wasn’t allowed to have boys in the house when her parents weren’t home (which was true) did not work either; Draco then suggested they ‘hang out’ (using the Muggle verbiage she had taught him, MUCH to her surprise) outside. Thus, Hermione was forced to ‘hang out.’

Hanging out with Malfoy along the streets of Hampstead, Hermione was on the lookout for unique and also Muggle-specific stores. She thought this would help Draco understand Muggle culture even more (report complete or not, Malfoy could stand to know more about Muggles, after all). Draco made not one positive comment about any of the places and items Hermione thought would be interesting to him, though, to her annoyance. He just seemed unenthused in general, but when verbalized her observation, he waved her off.

After that, she took him only to her favorite places—the music store and bookstore—where they could each peruse what they wanted to and Hermione didn’t have to hear Draco complain. Hermione was enjoying the quiet time! Gryffindor Tower was always so noisy, and she found that her visits home were much-needed breaks.

While in the music store, Hermione listened to more Celine Dion (as did Draco, she noticed, even though he was being secretive about his selections) plus more of her favorites: new band Savage Garden and a long-time favorite, Mariah Carey (Hermione hoped that someday her own wild hair could be tamed and as beautiful as Mariah’s and Celine’s).

On one of their treks to the bookstore, Draco appeared to be genuinely intrigued with the Muggles around him ( _Probably trying to chat up slags_ , Hermione thought with a roll of her eyes), so Hermione left him to wander for a bit, thinking it wouldn’t be terrible if she lost him for the rest of the day. A smile graced her lips at the thought as she nonchalantly searched for Pregnancy books. Knowing that she’d have to come back later (as she couldn’t risk having them in her possession while in Malfoy’s presence), she just found the Pregnancy section and moved on. That’s when she remembered that she needed a new journal.

_Ha! Do I ever need a new journal, now that I will be dealing with a secret pregnancy!_

She bought the cheapest journal in the bookstore, happy with her purchase and eager to start using it.

 _You could definitely use the stress outlet, Hermione!_ she said to herself.

 _Yes, I sure cou—OH, do belt up!_ she responded…to herself.

Maybe too much quiet time—her alone with her own thoughts—was not actually a good thing, she mused.

()

On the last Friday night of the Holiday, Hermione and her parents cooked her favorite foods (it had become a tradition for each time Hermione went back to Hogwarts). The night’s dinner was baked cheesy pasta, bacon crumbles and asparagus, fruit salad, and Boston Cream pie. They were sitting down to dinner when the doorbell rang. Hermione groaned into her hands as she walked slowly to answer the door, knowing that it must be Malfoy, as she hadn’t yet seen him that day.

_I should have known that a day without Malfoy was just too good to be true._

“Good evening, Granger,” he said jovially—in a manner he knew would irritate Hermione—and with a huge smirk on his face. “Hello, Mr. Granger, Mrs. Granger!” he then called out in a booming voice before she had a chance to do or say anything. She knew immediately that he was ensuring her parents would know of his presence in case Hermione shut the door in his face (which, incidentally, is exactly what she’d had in mind).

“Ah, Draco, is that you? Come on in, mate, we are just sitting down for dinner,” bellowed Mr. Granger, and Draco wasted no time in doing just that, stomping his winter boots on the foyer rug and shedding his coat and thrusting it at Hermione before sauntering toward the dining room.

“Coming, Granger?” he said over his shoulder before sending her a smirk and a wink. Hermione had to count to ten and recite the ingredients of Polyjuice Potion (the first one that came to mind) before she hexed the sneaky, annoying blond right there in her parents’ foyer.

Draco stayed for dinner—and dessert, to Hermione’s vexation! He called Hermione ‘Granger’ so much that _her parents_ insisted he call her by her given name….so he did!

After making Draco help her clear the table, load the dishwasher ( _sooo not going to hand wash tonight!),_ and put away the leftovers, Hermione suggested to Draco that he go home straight away.

“I’m sure you have packing to do before we return to Hogwarts in two days,” she suggested, trying to conceal her irritation with him.

“Oh, no. You see, HERMIONE,” he said emphatically (and emphasizing her name), “I have servants—you know, HOUSE ELVES—who will take care of that for me. I have nothing but time tonight,” he smirked.

_Why always with the smirking?_

Hermione’s parents came into the kitchen just then and invited Draco to stay and watch a movie with them all. “Draco, we are going to watch Hermione’s favorite—it’s about witches,” her mother excitedly informed him.

“Mum!” Hermione scolded. “Those aren’t like real witches at all!”

But Jean ignored Hermione’s censure, and Draco strode over to Jean and said, “That sounds first-rate, Mrs. Granger, much like tonight’s meal. Thank you for the delicious food and the invitation to stay.” He turned back and gave Hermione a huge smirk.

“Yes, just first-rate,” she growled back to him quietly and made a face with narrowed eyes, which only made his smirk larger.

Hermione loved The Wizard of Oz, and it was a tradition, since she’d been a little girl, that her family would watch it every Christmas holiday. _And he’s ruined it,_ she thought, watching him watch the movie attentively with a small upturn to his lips—not quite a smirk, but not, of course, a smile. Embarrassment also plagued her because, well, her favorite movie is kind of a kids’ movie. Draco would use any ammunition he could find to antagonize her, and she knew that he would definitely have more than enough ammo with the movie. A sigh of aggravation left her throat as her gaze full on him. His long legs were stretched out on the Chesterfield sofa—he was hogging the whole thing! Hermione had been forced to sit with her body folded up uncomfortably in a small chair, as her parents were sitting together on the loveseat-sized settee. Draco also held the bowl of popcorn far longer than the rest did before passing it along.

_He’s hogging the whole sofa—and the popcorn, too!_

“Oh, Mione,” Jean said excitedly at the end of The Wizard of Oz, “Why don’t we watch Mary Poppinswith Draco, too?” Then, turning to Draco she said, “You have not seen that movie, I presume, Draco?”

He shook his head with a small smile at Mrs. Granger. Draco had never before seen ANY movie.

“It’s about a witch who nannies for a busy family in London,” Jean quickly supplied, “but the parents don’t know that she’s a witch.”

Hermione started to utter an excuse, but Draco interrupted, saying, “That sounds great. Brilliant idea, Mrs. Granger—and I’m sure it would be a brilliant addition to _our_ report for Muggle Studies, don’t you, HERMIONE?” He looked at her pointedly, his head turned far enough away from the elder Grangers that they were oblivious to the look of immense satisfaction at being able to torture her that was on his face. Hermione could only agree, as her parents had raised her to be a polite young lady (all of the intentional and forceful smacking–boys-on-the-cheek aside) and they were sitting right there.

“Brilliant!” Jean agreed. “Mione, it looks like we could use some more popcorn, please dear?”

“Yes, it _does_. Sure, Mum,” Hermione said with barely-concealed restraint and a fake smile on her face. She took the popcorn bowl (from Draco, naturally) and walked to the kitchen to make more of the treat.

_He’s got them eating out of his long-fingered, pale, ferrety hands and getting them to make me wait on him! Ugh, what a snake!_

When the movie about the pretty magical nanny concluded, the elder Grangers hinted that it was bedtime—aka ‘time for Hermione to see her friend off and then to come up to bed,’ too. Hermione jumped at the opportunity and was halfway through her goodbye, leading Draco by his elbow toward the door, when Jean exclaimed, “Oh, crikey! Charles—it’s nearly 11pm! We can’t allow Draco to walk to the station at this time of night. Draco, Mr. Granger will drive you.”

Hermione could tell by the fast-as-the-speed-of-light look appearing and then disappearing on Draco’s face that he was not thrilled with that suggestion. Now it was Hermione’s turn to smirk.

Though before Draco could say anything, Charles yawned and said, “Jean, it is late, dear, and if it’s all the same to you, Draco, and if your parents won’t mind, would you allow us to instead put you up in the guest room tonight, and I will drive you to the station—or Hermione could accompany you there—tomorrow?”

Hermione gasped….loudly. Three sets of eyes fell on hers; Draco’s widened somewhat before he plastered on his usual fake pleasant mask.

“I completely agree, Sir, and I thank you for your offer. I am right knackered tonight. My parents won’t mind, but I’ll send them an owl nonetheless,” Draco finished, looking to Hermione to show him to her owl.

“I don’t have an owl, Malfoy,” Hermione informed him. “Maybe you can send a message with your Patronus?” she suggested flippantly.

Draco’s expression hardened for a second before he said, “Did you forget that I cannot use magic near Muggles, Granger? Or, are you offering to your Patronus with a message to my parents so that they will not have to worry about me?” The gleam in his eyes told Hermione that he felt like he’d outsmarted her, and she was further annoyed with the snake.

Hermione sighed; she had already had to explain to the Ministry on Draco’s behalf that she had used his wand last week when they babysat together, and her name was on a ‘watch’ list for performing magic with another’s wand. Draco’s name, too, was on a ‘watch’ list for allowing magic to be performed with his wand in the presence of Muggles.

“Fine I will send a Patronus to your mother. What shall I say?”

Jean and Charles stood eyeing the teens’ exchange and were excited to see Hermione perform magic (although they had no idea what a Patronus was). Draco was relieved for the first time that his magic was being watched; he could not perform the Patronus Charm, and that was definitely not something that he wanted Hermione to know.

“Mother, I am spending the night at the home of a schoolmate tonight. I will be home tomorrow. Regards to Hunter. Your son, Draco,” he said.

 _Regards to Hunter_? Hermione thought, but shook her head quickly to clear her thoughts of the mysterious ‘Hunter’ to properly Perform the Charm.

Jean and Charles gasped as the silver otter sprang from Hermione’s wand and floated (looking to be happily swimming) through the room. Hermione repeated Draco’s message to the otter as her parents stood in awe; to Hermione’s surprise, Draco, too, looked to be in awe. Unbeknownst to her, Draco had never seen the Patronus Charm performed (and he actually was in awe).

With the message sent, Hermione went straight to her bathroom, quickly readied herself for bed, and then opened Draco’s door a crack and hissed through it, “You’d better be on your best—no, MY best—behavior, Malfoy, or I’ll hex your bollocks!”

All she heard in response was, “Goodnight, HERMIONE,” in a mocking tone and an arrogant chuckle as she shut the door. She stomped her foot and crossed her arms as she crossed the hall to her own room.

Locking the door, she vowed to give Malfoy the scolding of his lifetime ( _and really, probably the ONLY scolding he will have ever had_ , she thought) in the morning.

That night, Hermione had less-than-chaste dreams about Malfoy, and woke in the morning feeling elated and disgusted at the same time.

()

The next morning, Hermione slept until nine, which was quite late for her. Draco, however, slept until noon. When he finally awoke, he decided he needed to ‘experience a Muggle shower,’ so he did. He also ate lunch with the Grangers, at the elders’ request.

“We can’t send you back home on an empty stomach, now, could we? What would your parents think of us?” they had said. In response, Hermione had snorted and choked on her food while Draco had just smiled at his hosts (and then smirked at Hermione when her parents weren’t looking).

Draco finally finished his meal and helped clear the table. _Such a suck up. Slimy, Slytherin git_ , Hermione thought. At the door, he shook hands with and thanked the elder Grangers with graciousness the likes of which she had _never_ seen. Ever. She almost believed that his sentiments were sincere.

 _Where on earth has the real Draco Malfoy gone? Is this another Polyjuice-Malfoy?_ she wondered (only half serious, for a Polyjuice-Malfoy is no laughing matter).

Hermione’s mum shocked the pants off of her when she gave Draco a quick hug—and then Hermione almost peed her pants in shock when Draco hugged her back! Draco appeared surprised, too, though, as if he were unfamiliar with the gesture, before his face tinged pink. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat at the sight; she thought he was going to go ‘Draco Malfoy’ on her mother, but he instead held himself together well.

 _Quite the actor, he is_.

Although her resolve had dwindled—slightly—after witnessing Draco’s astounding display, Hermione walked Draco down the front steps and through the front garden gate, and down the street, ready to scold him. When she looked up at him, ready to begin her inquisition, she was puzzled to see that he seemed to be expecting it.

“Malfoy, I don’t know what you’ve been getting at by being here every day or by schmoozing my parents and annoying me to death, but—”

She was cut off by him saying, “What happened to you that night, Granger?”

She paused at his question. “What?” she then asked. “What night?” she said, nonchalantly, feigning ignorance.

“You know what night, Granger,” Draco spat, in a tone full of disdain. “When you ending up in the Hospital Wing, when you were supposed to be helping me in the Library.”

Hermione took another pause. _Think, Hermione!_

“Is that what this was? You paying me back for standing you up—for not being at your beck and call?” she asked incredulously.

“Of course not, Granger,” he replied, clearly aggravated at her pretense.

She was so surprised he even remembered it and wondered why he hadn’t asked her before today; he’d had almost a fortnight. “Answer my question first, Malfoy,” she said stubbornly after a silent pause between them.

Draco knew that stubborn look and just how stubborn she could be, so he gave in to her demand to save himself time and to spare himself a headache. “I need to pass Muggle Studies, Granger, and so spending time in a _mundane_ Muggle household like yours has allowed me to gather enough information for my report. I can now consider it complete and submit it on Monday. That’s it. Now, my questions,” he commanded, folding his arms over his expensive cashmere Havelock coat. His desire to satisfy his curiosity was besting him, and he knew better, but he had waited so long that he couldn’t help it. “What did you do to Potter in the train compartment to make him look so wretched? Did you go to the party and the Ball with him and then break his heart?” he simpered sarcastically.

Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re so obsessed with Harry, Malfoy—did you know?”

Though Draco looked to be angry at her statement, he calmly said, through clenched teeth, “What happened, Granger?”

“Why do you want to know so badly, Malfoy?” she screeched. “So you can attempt it, too?” she replied with a bitter laugh. “Sorry to rain on your parade, but that will NOT be happening again.”

He raised his eyebrows; he didn’t understand the term ‘rain on your parade,’ and he certainly did not understand her phrase, “so you can attempt it, too.’ Sighing, Draco closed his eyes for a moment while he summoned all of the patience he could before he began again. “What happened that night, Granger?” he asked in a serious tone.

Hermione realized that he was not going to give up. _Okay….what to say, how to say it, how much to tell…_

He tapped is foot impatiently, though his hands were now in the pockets of his coat, lending nonchalance to his air. “Well?”

“Well…” she started, then faltered, and tears welled up. He sighed.

“Granger, do you want to walk to that park we saw the other day? While we’re at it, you can gather up that bloody annoying—yes, yes, I swore, Granger, the world isn’t coming to a _bloody_ end—Gryffindor courage and tell me. I’ll pester you all day if you don’t tell me,” he threatened.

She believed that threat based on the past week, so she nodded and they started walking to the park. If he had been any other classmate, she wouldn’t even consider giving him even an inkling of the truth. As she walked and ruminated, though, she felt that he should know a part of it because he was involved—or at least a strand of his hair had been. And that’s when it hit her; _what if Malfoy had WILLINGLY given the rapist his hair? What if he WERE complicit?_ She hadn’t even considered it because…. _because why?_ She didn’t want to think about that now—she _couldn’t_ now. She was so angry and indignant with herself—and afraid. Now, all she could do was give into her fear and RUN.

“I trust you remember the way back to the station, the one by the music store? Bye, then,” she said quickly, nodding before she turned and ran back toward home as fast as her legs could take her there.

“Damnit, Granger!” he hollered at her, unable to rein-in his anger at her total avoidance of his question (he had, after all, been keeping up a very successful patient façade for almost a whole day now). He didn’t go after her; _Malfoys don’t give chase._ He sneered back at a couple of mothers who looked at him disapprovingly for swearing in front of their children as he started toward the train station—and his close to three-hour trip home.

()

-January 1997

The second term started, and right away Harry was proving to be Hermione’s rock AND a source of her frustration. In the first Potions class of the new term, Harry had infuriated her and most everyone else—Draco included, Hermione noticed—when he used a Bezoar to earn perfect marks instead of making a potion. In addition, Harry was still insistent about Malfoy being a Death Eater, and so, as Harry was sticking like glue to Hermione (for which she was completely grateful), she was forced to endure his ramblings on the subject many, many times over.

Harry never left her out of his sight while in their shared classes, and in the corridors and the Great Hall; he even joined her on her Patrols. Because they did not know who the rapist was (it could be another prefect, or a friend of a prefect), Hermione and Harry felt that they couldn’t be too careful. When Harry was unable to keep his eyes on Hermione, another Gryffindor or Luna was there in his place. Harry had spoken to his and Hermione’s trusted friends and Housemates about this without giving them any information about the rape. All involved believed the lie: that it was because of Hermione’s Muggleborn status and her being the best friend of Harry Potter that she needed protection from Pureblood Supremacists and Voldemort’s followers. Ron was not part of the ‘Protection Detail’; Hermione still was so hurt over Ron and Lavender’s relationship that she just couldn’t be around him.

Hermione and Harry also talked about her theories about Draco. Harry agreed ( _shocking!)_ that Draco could have been complicit in the brewing and/or using of the Polyjuice Potion. They didn’t trust Draco enough, of course, to directly ask him if he knew anything about it, so Harry suggested they give him Veritaserum. Harry was salivating over the thought of asking Draco about being a Death Eater as well as about her rape, and while Hermione realized that it would be a good thing to be able to know for sure ( _if for nothing else but being able to silence Harry on the subject!),_ she knew that this idea presented too many problems.

Hermione was avoiding Draco like the plague, but that was proving difficult considering all of the classes they shared. She could tell he was looking for ways in which to catch her alone, and so she was thankful for her ‘Protection Detail.’ The Detail was working rather well until Draco changed his tactic; he started sending her owls.

_‘Granger, what happened that night?’_

_‘You know how persistent I am, Granger.’_

_‘What is with your pathetic Gryffindor friends treating you like you’re a child, Granger?’_

She ignored his every letter, which were now being delivered by a beautiful Eagle Owl, and not a school owl like before holiday. _Must have been a Christmas gift from his snooty Mother and his nasty, incarcerated Father_ , she thought.

She had purchased The Pregnancy Guidebook for the First-time Mother before returning to school, and from that, she knew she had very little time in which she could avoid it, but she was sure trying! She was taking her vitamins (which Madam Pomfrey had instructed she buy during holiday), and so she was quite content to ignore everything else for the time being. She’d resigned herself to the fact that she was going to have a baby; all three of her Muggle pregnancy tests that she used upon her return to Hogwarts had turned up positive. Resigned to the fact that she had a role to play in the fall of Voldemort, she decided that she was not going to be a coward about it. The Prophecy stated that she had to birth a child to help vanquish the Dark, but nowhere in the Prophecy did it state that she had to be its mother—its caregiver. She still thought she’d be a horrible mother—at least to this baby because of her age—but there was no way she’d harm the child or jeopardize the chance to win the war. She was hoping that Dumbledore and the Order would help her find a loving home for her child.

_Heaven knows it’s not going to fare well with a mum like me who hasn’t finished school and with no dad to care for it._

Dumbledore sent her a letter, delivered by the beautiful owl he had used before holiday, regarding the Prophecy upon the start of the term. In it he expressed his anger over her rape and apologized for her having been treated so abhorrently in his school. He informed her that he was doing what he could to find her attacker. He thanked her for her ‘willingness to combat the Dark Lord.’ His letter did nothing but leave a bad taste in her mouth, so to speak, and so it was after receiving that letter that she had decided to forget about the Prophecy. She had been quite pleased with that idea; to her it felt akin to getting even with the Prophecy—well, as much as a non-entity can be ‘got even with.’

Her avoidance of the Prophecy had been successful until the third week into January, when she was compelled to visit the Hospital Wing. After awaking her roommates one morning with the sounds of her retching and vomiting on the floor, she hastily told them she had likely caught the flu, and she fled (while still in her pajamas AND having forgotten to clean up her mess) to the Wing. She passed a few students on their way to breakfast, but she didn’t care if they saw her in her current state.

When Hermione arrived to the Wing, Madam Pomfrey did not appear to be surprised at all by Hermione’s presence or by her symptoms; they both had known this was inevitable, after all. Madam Pomfrey gave Hermione a Stomach-Stilling Potion, and tucked her into a bed, the privacy curtains drawn around her once more. Hermione was feeling the potion’s effects, but she was not feeling any better mentally. She knew that her time of avoiding the Prophecy was over. It was time for reality….time to face the facts….time to grow up; but before that, she was going to cry, long and hard. And she did, with Madam Pomfrey by her side.

Madam Pomfrey insisted that Hermione remain in the hospital bed all day (not due to her physical condition, but her mental one) and wrote excuses to Hermione’s professors, ensuring Hermione would not be given detention for her truancy. She and Hermione set up appointments that fit around Hermione’s already busy schedule for checking in on her health and the baby’s. She gave Hermione a huge bottle of Stomach-Stilling Potion and instructed her on how much she could take each day.

Madam Pomfrey also gave Hermione something that, under any other circumstances, Hermione would have loved: a book, of course. As it was, Hermione was not thrilled, but still thankful. The book was entitled The Witch With Childand related to magical issues in pregnancy. Hermione soon learned from the book that Apparition in pregnancy was considered safe; and good thing, too, as Apparition instruction would begin soon. She read that flying on a broom was ill-advised even for the most confident flyer ( _absolutely non-applicable to me,_ she thought), and that ingesting Polyjuice Potion was contraindicated as well, due to the ‘temporary change in physical features,’ which could harm the developing fetus. There were also some ingredients in other potions that she must avoid ingesting, as well as handling or even smelling them. _Potions class just got easier,_ she thought sarcastically.

The best find in the book was a list of charms she could use on her body during pregnancy. The most useful one, in her opinion, could conceal her pregnant belly from view, although it could not prevent it from being discovered if it were touched ( _possibly problematic_ ) or while she was naked ( _no problem there!)_.

 _No hugging, then!_ she resolved—before realizing that the only person at Hogwarts who would hug her was Harry, and he already knew about the baby! Needless to say, she felt much better—elated, in fact—after resting and reading in the Wing that day.

That evening, however, she was not feeling well. Her nausea had returned, as had a certain beautiful owl with a message tied to its leg. Hermione groaned at the sight of it and took her dose of potion for nausea before dealing with the unwanted avian visitor.

_‘Granger,_

_You’re sick? What are your symptoms? Did you get Muggle germs from those brats we watched? Is this serious? Should I visit Madam Pomfrey? Advise post haste; my owl was instructed to wait for your reply, and trust me when I say this owl is as persistent as I am.’_

Hermione was fuming. _What an egocentric dolt_! And as much as she tried to ignore the owl and not send a reply to Malfoy, the owl was indeed just as persistent and annoying as its owner (not to mention violent)!

_‘Malfoy,_

_I assure you that what ails me is not communicable—that is, it is not catchable. You have no reason to be worried for your health, but do check with Madam Pomfrey if you feel narcissistic enough (which I’m sure you do) to seek out undue attention. I’m sure it’s been far too long since someone fawned all over you for no good reason._

_Also, stop owling me! Although your owl is beautiful, I do not appreciate her bites!’_

Hermione was quite happy with her reply and sent it off with the beautiful-but-vicious Eagle owl post haste.

_Leave it to Malfoy to own a sadistic pet._

Quite knackered from the stress-that-is-Malfoy and from the task of _growing a person_ , Hermione fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

()

The first Apparation lesson for all of the Sixth Years arrived, and as excited as Hermione was to learn something new, she groaned whined to herself when she dragged herself out of bed that Saturday morning. She was constantly tired nowadays, and wanted a lie in…. _maybe I can get in a kip before dinner,_ she thought hopefully as she readied for the day.

Upon entering the Great Hall, with Harry as her escort, of course, she was filled with excitement. Unsurprisingly, Harry was too distracted by Malfoy, and he moved to the back of the group of Sixth Years to stand behind Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who looked to Hermione to be arguing. Hermione just shook her head and rolled her eyes, focusing on the lesson once more.

Suddenly, she heard McGonagall’s voice boom, “Mister Malfoy! Do stop talking and pay attention!”

Hermione turned (as did most everyone) to face Malfoy. His face was red with embarrassment. _That’s a good look on him,_ she thought smugly. Then out of nowhere, she thought, _He is adorable when he’s embarrassed….and he’s so fit…_

After that, thoughts of her time with Malfoy’s doppelganger (the term she preferred to use to refer to her rapist) came crashing into her mind. She couldn’t help but close her eyes and enjoy. She knew the feelings weren’t real— _hadn’t_ been real, even—but the memory of being in love ( _or lust, rather,_ she corrected herself) was still a sweet one for her. Focusing on Apparition was difficult, at best, after that point.

When the lesson was over (Hermione vowing to study the Apparition pamphlets diligently and to pay close attention next lesson), she helped the professors magically return the tables and benches to the Great Hall for lunch and eagerly ate what appeared in front of her before retiring to her dorm. She was about ready to lie down to enjoy a good, long kip, when she heard a tap, tap, tap.

 _Blast it all_.

A plain, brown owl clutched a large package in its talons. Hermione easily saw her name written upon the wrapping. _It must be from Mum and Dad._ When she opened her parcel, the scent of new parchment and leather wafted around her, and she inhaled with pleasure. The item she’d received was a journal, leather-bound and filled with thick parchment paper. The cover was burgundy, and ‘H.G.’—her initials—were embossed onto the front cover. It looked expensive.

Hermione looked for a note from the sender, but there was none. She couldn’t think of anyone who’d send this to her except her parents, but they always sent a letter with any package they had sent in the past. _Well, who ever sent it will make their identity known eventually._

She had already started to write in the journal she had purchased on holiday, so she stashed this new, beautiful one away for now. Grabbing her other journal before plopping down onto her bed, she wrote in it for all of two minutes before falling fast asleep.

()

February arrived, cold and blustery, which suited Hermione fine; _It’s the perfect weather for napping!_ But, alas, she found that she did not have as much time for kips as she would have liked. She and the other Prefects, along with the Head Girl, Cho Chang, and the Head Boy, Cormac McLaggen, were preparing for the Valentine’s Day Dance, which was only three days away now. The theme of the dance was going to be a Masquerade Ball, which, surprisingly to Hermione, had been suggested by Malfoy; not surprisingly—to anyone—was the fact that Malfoy had not shown up for the meetings to plan it in weeks.

_Typical._

Hermione was looking forward to the Ball—although McLaggen kept looking at her with his _smolder_ , and she had a feeling he was going to ask her to be his date again. She still found him attractive, but she was not going to touch him with a ten meter pole. The only person she’d wanted to go with was Ron, but as he was taken, and so was the girl Harry wanted to take, Harry and Hermione had decided to go together. They realized that they should have gone with this course of action for Slughorn’s Christmas Party and were committed to better date selection from now on. Besides, neither of them felt comfortable without Hermione having a bodyguard, so it just made sense.

When the day of the Masquerade arrived, Hermione was surprised at how excited she felt. _Perhaps because I know this may be the last chance I have to enjoy a Ball,_ she thought morosely. It was upon her return from breakfast that she heard a familiar tapping at the dormitory window.

 _Oh, for heaven’s sake! Again, Malfoy? Please be for Lavender or Parvati, please,_ Hermione silently begged, as if the owl could comply with her wishes.

“Oh,” squealed Lavender as she ran to the window. “Which one of us is getting owled, I wonder!” Lavender simpered looking around at Parvati and Hermione. As Lavender and Parvati were from Wizarding families, they were used to getting owls, and they got them from their families quite often. They both also received a fair amount of messages from students from other Houses at Hogwarts who used the school owls for delivery. Lavender knew perfectly well that Hermione never got any (that Lavender was aware of) messages from other students and that her parents rarely sent anything by owl through the Muggle-Magical Post Office in Diagon Alley. Hermione noted the smug look on ‘Lav-Lav’s’ face and counted to ten to cool her temper with the blonde.

Lavender let the plain brown owl inside and took off its delivery. A tiny frown formed on her pretty, fair face. “It’s yours, Hermione,” she said in a fake pleased voice with a fake smile on her face. Hermione couldn’t believe it; never in her life had she received as many owls as she had in just the past 3 months! She returned the fake smile and said thank you as she took her letter from Lavender’s hand.

The fact that this owl was obviously a school owl made her nervous; she knew that whomever it was who had sent her the note directing her to go to the Room of Requirement instead of the Library had used a school owl. She retreated to her four-poster to read her letter.

_‘Hermione,_

_Please do me the honor of dancing with me tonight. I’ll be wearing a navy blue suit with a red rose boutonniere. My mask is the Venetian Bauta style in silver.’_

Hermione did not recognize the handwriting, but she fled her room with the letter to show Harry. She found him alone in his dorm, perusing his Marauder’s Map (no surprise, there). She thrust the note into Harry’s hand. After he read it, he smiled and said to a smiling Hermione, “I think we may be able to catch a rapist tonight.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Hermione replied mischievously.

()

At six ‘o clock, Hermione began readying herself for the Masquerade Ball. At ten weeks pregnant and her baby being roughly the size of the average strawberry (her womb only slightly bigger), she was not showing her pregnancy at all. She had decided, therefore, that a more form-fitting dress was in order tonight.

Not one to wear the traditional red or pink on Valentine’s Day, she chose to wear the silver dress she had worn to Slughorn’s Christmas party. It was a v-neckline empire-waist dress with two layers: the first layer was a silky material and the layer covering the entire first layer was sheer. The silky layer was almost-knee length and the sheer layer extended beyond the knee just slightly and was slightly ruffled and had slightly ruffled capped sleeves.

She buckled her silver two-inch platform heels and clasped her black choker necklace she’d gotten for Christmas around her neck. She piled her wild hair into a chic bun at her crown, leaving a few tendrils down around her temples. She even put on full makeup tonight. _Live a little—while you can,_ she told herself with a glance down at her lower abdomen where soon she would see a small bump.

She added her obligatory mask (a silver sparkly one in the Volto style, which she had transfigured from a washcloth) for the Masquerade Ball, and took a dose of the potion for morning sickness ( _anytime sickness, more like!),_ all set to meet Harry.

In the Common Room, Harry was waiting for her, looking dashing in his suit and dress robes. His hair, however, was its usual mess, but Hermione just smiled at his disheveled hair that she adored so much.

As the two best friends slowly made their way to the Ball, they reviewed their plan to catch the criminal with a Muffliato Charm placed around them. The plan was simple; Harry would discreetly help Hermione find the sender of the letter, she would dance with him in close proximity to Harry who would Accio the mask from the boy’s face, allowing Hermione to identify him. They realized that this was only a lead to solving the mystery, as Hermione’s attacker and her masked dance partner may not be the same person, but it was the best plan they could concoct on short notice, and really, the only potential lead they’d had the whole time since Hermione’s rape. Harry had suggested using the Felix Felicis that he had ‘won’ last term, but Hermione was adamant that he save that for a much more important task than this. Reluctantly, Harry had agreed.

They entered the Ball, both sets of eyes peeled in search of the silver-masked boy in blue with a red flower boutonniere. They had both researched types of masks weeks ago in preparation for the Ball, and so they knew that the mystery man’s selection was a full-face mask. “How appropriate for someone who has something to hide—besides just his face,” Harry had declared when he and Hermione were going over the details the letter had revealed.

They eventually spotted a young man wearing the silver Bauta mask was also wearing a navy blue suit with a red rose in the pocket buttonhole. Harry kept his eyes on the potential perpetrator of Hermione’s attack while Hermione continued searching for any other possible suspects.

“That seems to be our only option, Harry,” she said covertly. “Are you ready?” Harry nodded, but as they made their way over to the mystery man, he started dancing with someone. Harry and Hermione latched onto each other, nonchalantly, keeping the suspect in their sights while they danced. ‘Mystery man’ seemed very attached to his current dancing partner, so Hermione and Harry fell into a comfortable conversation while they waited for an opportune moment in which to make their move.

“Hermione, you look really smashing tonight. Everything about you is just….blimey, cracking,” Harry gushed sincerely, blushing.

Hermione blushed too, and replied, “Thanks, Harry. You look quite smart, yourself—even more so than you did at the Yule Ball fourth year.”

He really did look handsome. His suit was stylish though not lavish; even though Harry had inherited plenty of money from his parents, he didn’t flaunt it and wasn’t materialistic at all. She already knew he was fit, but she saw tonight how good his clothes looked on him. She hadn’t thought of him being so handsome since she’d had a massive crush on him in third year. She realized after a few minutes that he was looking at her curiously—she must have been staring at him! She quickly broke her stare and cleared her throat.

 _Oi, his eyes are mesmerizing,_ she thought.

“Your mask turned out well,” she said instead. “You even fit it around your glasses.”

“Yeah, well, it looks handmade, but its good enough,” he chuckled. “You transfigured yours, didn’t you? It’s brilliant.”

She blushed again, starting to thank him, when she saw the mystery man alone in a corner. “Harry, let’s move,” she said with a nod of her head in the right direction. Holding hands so as not to lose each other in the crowd, they made their way to the corner. Almost to their target, a crying blur of red rushed by, and Harry was instantly diverted. Hermione had seen Ginny, too, so she waved at Harry, encouraging him to go after her. “I’ll be alright—it’s so crowded here. I’ll wait by the punch, over there,” she hollered over the music. Harry nodded hastily and then chased after his dream girl.

Hermione made her way to the refreshments and stood watching the crowd for no more than ten seconds before she was suddenly (but gently) spun around, squawking in surprise, on her slippery shoes and pulled away from the punch table to a darkened spot; the charmed floating lanterns were not shinning as much in this spot as in the rest of the Hall. Now face to face with her abductor, she saw that it was the Bauta-masked, navy-suited mystery man. She gave a tight smile to him and tried to temper her nervousness and trepidation, all the while praying that Harry would hurry back.

She sniffed cautiously, in case her nose was being assaulted with a love potion. Smelling no potion and seeing none on his person, and realizing that he was barely touching her and that they were still in sight of other couples, her fear diminished. The masked mystery man had her right hand gently in his left and his right arm on her middle back; automatically, she placed her left hand on his right upper arm near his elbow.

His silver, gilded full-face mask was remarkably handsome, and if he had transfigured it, he must be a skilled wizard, Hermione thought. The only facial features she could see were his eyes, which were blue. He was tall but not exceptionally so. He was lean, his arms not bulging with muscles like Ron’s and Cormac’s. His hair was brown, about the same color as hers.

“H-hello,” she whispered nervously, wearing a shy smile. She was still nervous, but it was more of an excited nervous, stemming from him surprising her and from her being impatient to discover his identity. He only nodded in a polite, reverent way.

She giggled, raising her eyebrow. “I suppose it’s difficult to speak with that mask, then?” she teased. He nodded again.

_Hmm, so talking while dancing is not going to be an option. No clues to be found there, then._

_He’s smart._

Hermione tightened her grip on his hand that was holding hers with a bit more purpose. He looked at their joined hands momentarily, and then back at her face before decreasing the distance between them by just a smidge.

 _Timid,_ she mused with another shy smile. She felt even more at ease with him now; timidity wasn’t a trait of aggressors and rapists ( _or pervs like Cormac McLaggen)._ She adjusted her left arm so that it was slightly higher up on his right arm and absently ran her thumb over his upper bicep. He then pulled her toward him minimally again, his right hand maintaining an intentional, but not possessive, grip on an appropriate spot on her back.

 _Timid and proper,_ she thought, approvingly.

They danced together thusly for just a short time before a new song began. Hermione recognized it and smiled.

_Dancin’ in the dark, middle of the night,_

_Takin’ your heart and holding it tight,_

_Emotional touch, touchin’ my skin,_

_And asking you to do what you’ve been doin’ all over again—_

Being a Prefect, she had known that a mixture of Muggle and Wizard music would be played tonight, but she had not been involved in deciding the playlist. She began mouthing the words to this song, as it was one that she loved and she just couldn’t help herself. After only a few lines of her mouthing the words she was softly singing them.

_Oh, it’s a beautiful thing,_

_Don’t think I can keep it all in._

_I just gotta let you know_

_What it is that won’t let me go._

_It’s your love._

_It just does somethin’ to me._

_It sends a shock right through me._

_I can’t get enough._

_And if you wonder about the spell I’m under,_

_Oh, it’s your love._

Hermione found that she was enjoying herself immensely—the music, the lyrics, the lighting, her dance partner’s respectful behavior and physical attributes, they way he held her….it was all quite good—and, in response to it all, she, feeling uncharacteristically dreamy, leaned into him.

_Better than I was, more than I am,_

_And all of this happened by taking your hand._

_And who I am now is who I wanted to be,_

_And now that we’re together, I’m stronger than ever._

_I’m happy and free._

Dancing so close to him now, Hermione smelled his cologne. It was very light—not overpowering like most boys’ colognes—scented like mint with a subtle hint of freshly mown grass. She approved. Heartily.

_Oh, it’s a beautiful thing,_

_Don’t think I can keep it all in._

_And if you ask me why I’ve changed,_

_All I gotta do is say your sweet name._

_It’s your love._

_It just does somethin’ to me._

_It sends a shock right through me._

_I can’t get enough._

_And if you wonder about the spell I’m under,_

_Oh, it’s your love._

‘Mystery man’ had noticed her inching closer, and he immediately mimicked the action, to Hermione’s relief. She grinned to herself at the fact that he wasn’t turned off by her movement, and she couldn’t think of a single thing wrong with his reciprocation.

_Ohh, baby,_

_Oh, oh, oh,_

_Oh, it’s a beautiful thing,_

_Don’t think I can keep it all in._

_I just gotta let you know_

_What it is that won’t let me go._

_It’s your love._

_It just does somethin’ to me._

_It sends a shock right through me._

_I can’t get enough._

_And if you wonder about the spell I’m under,_

_Oh, it’s your love._

Though she couldn’t see his face or know what he was doing for sure without pulling back (which she was loathe to do!) and looking up at him, she had the distinct feeling that he was smelling her hair. The image that she conjured of him doing that made her warm, inside and out.

_It’s your love._

_It’s your love._

The song ended and the moments without song brought Hermione out of her reverie. She glanced up at the man in the mask, who looked at her in return but did not show any desire to relinquish his hold on her in favor of another partner—in fact, he shook his head curtly and squeezed her ever so slightly where his hands touched her body. Hermione then released the tiny breath she’d held in and smiled to herself.

_Goodness, but isn’t this lovely? I haven’t enjoyed myself at a dance since going with Viktor…._

Remembering Viktor Krum and the Yule Ball in fourth year led her to think of Ron, and she felt a stitch of guilt in her chest—but only momentarily—and the instinct she’d had to look around for him lasted a only a second as well. She opted instead to enjoy the time she was having, with whom ever it was that she was having it. Not wanting to bother with _that_ unknown at the present, she decided that she wouldn’t, and so she didn’t.

 _My fierce stubbornness really is quite a strength of mine,_ she mused, letting out a tiny giggle.

Another song had begun and she quickly left her thoughts to listen. She easily realized that it, too, was a Muggle song—and it was another one she knew. It was a newly-released American R&B song, but also a remake of an old British rock song her mum has liked for ages. Letting herself fall back into a dreamlike state, she again softly sang the words to the song, her slightly above-average voice adding a nice harmony to the song’s melody.

_Sometimes I wonder how I’d ever make it through,_

_Through this world without having you._

_I just wouldn’t have a clue._

_And sometimes it seems that this world’s closin’ in on me,_

_And there’s no way of breaking free,_

_Then I see you reach out for me._

_Oh, sometimes I wanna give up, wanna give in, wanna quit the fight._

_Then one look at you, Baby, can make everything alright,_

_Make everything alright._

_When I see you smile, I can face the world._

_Oh, you know that I can do anything._

_When I see you smile, I see a ray of light._

_Oh, I see it shining right through the rain,_

_When I see you smile, Baby when I see you smile at me._

Gently and slowly, the Masked Man brought Hermione’s right hand, enclosed in his own, to his chest near his heart where he held it and caressed her knuckles with his thumb. Hermione let out a tiny gasp of surprise, as the movement pulled her into him far enough that her head could rest upon his shoulder, if she let it. She decided to not rest her head but sighed contentedly.

_Baby, there’s nothin’ in this world that could ever do_

_What the touch of your hand can do._

_It’s like nothing I ever knew._

_And when the rain is fallin,’ I don’t feel it ‘cause you’re here with me._

_And one look at you, Baby, is all that I’ll ever need,_

_Is all that I’ll ever need, Oh._

Caught up in the moment, Hermione let her head fall to the boy’s shoulder, and in response, the boy pulled her in a miniscule amount closer with the hand that rested on her lower back. Now Hermione knew that her dance partner was indeed smelling her hair; his head was gently resting on hers and she could feel his warm breath in her curly locks.

_When I see you smile, I can face the world._

_Oh, you know that I can do anything._

_When I see you smile, I see a ray of light,_

_Oh, I see it shining right through the rain_

_When I see you smile, Baby when I see you smile at me._

_Sometimes I wanna give up, wanna give in, wanna quit the fight._

_Then one look at you, Baby, can make everything alright,_

_Make everything all—’_

Hermione was torn out of the trance that the dance had put her in when her partner abruptly wrenched his hand out of her grip and off of her lower back. Startled, and a little frightened, she looked up into his face. He’d placed both of his hands onto his mask, as if attempting to remove it….or keep it on. Hermione quickly realized what was happening and frantically looked around for Harry to signal him to stop it; her intuition told her that this boy was not capable of being her attacker.

However, her time with the man in the mask was already over; he seemed to have realized that his mask was being magically summoned off of his person, and so holding it tightly, his knuckles white, he looked at Hermione and very quickly and smoothly leaned down and spoke in her ear before dashing away. Hermione tried to stop him, but he moved through the crowd too quickly and stealthily.

 _‘Right me, H.G.’? or ‘Write me, H.G.’?_ _Was that what he said? What did that mean?_

Confused and disappointed, Hermione, turned around to find Harry (whose wand was at the ready as he searched for the mystery man in the crowd) and to give him a glare that of which Molly Weasley would be proud.

Unfazed by her glare, Harry made his way over to her and yelled at her for dancing with a stranger without him being present. He enumerated on all of the ‘what ifs,’ and Hermione, ever thankful for her best friend-protector, listened politely. She then told him how bleak things had been for her up until the Ball and how much she had been enjoying herself for the first time in a while—and for maybe the LAST time in a long while. Harry also listened politely, out of respect for Hermione’s ‘condition,’ she knew; but he held firm to his displeasure.

 _He’s also upset because he was hoping that it would be Malfoy behind the mask and that his theories about his nemesis would be partially proven,_ thought Hermione, _and he’s mad at me for ruining that._

Hermione (with Harry by her side, of course), searched around the Great Hall for the blue-suited, silver-masked mystery man, but that proved futile, as they couldn’t find him anywhere. Hermione asked Harry to escort her back to Gryffindor Tower, where left him with a curt ‘good night’ at the stairs leading to the Girls’ Dormitory.

She removed her makeup and readied herself for bed, not even bothering with a book tonight. Despite all of the excitement that had thrilled her body and mind just minutes earlier, the pregnancy hormones were leaving her quite knackered, and so she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Her dreams that night were of a handsome, blue-eyed, masked man, who smelled deliciously like mint and grass and who swept her off her feet—literally. Her dream-man kissed her with a passion she’d only ever dreamed of—although not even her previous dreams about any boy had been as steamy as the one she had that night. Even her memories of her time with Malfoy’s doppelganger weren’t as enjoyable as the dream she had that night after the Masquerade.

When she woke the next morning and remembered her dream, she blushed furiously, and thought, _Was that my pregnancy hormones that caused that outrageous dream? Or was it just the Masked Man?_

She happily remained in bed much longer than she usually did in the mornings while mentally summoning up every detail she could recall about the Masked Man of her dream and the Masked Man of the Ball.

It was an unusually pleasant morning for Hermione Granger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the sensuality and bit of mystery in this chapter. Any theories? Questions? I love to hear from my readers, and I do reply!


	4. Chapter 4

To Love You More

Chapter 4

The morning after the Ball, Hermione missed breakfast entirely. Finding that she wasn’t hungry anyway, she filled up a glass of water (knowing how important staying hydrated is for her baby) and remained in her bed, daydreaming. All of a sudden, she recalled the Masked Man’s words to her as he made his escape when Harry was attempting to de-mask him.

_‘Right me, H.G.’. Or was it ‘Write me, H.G.’?_

_And ‘H.G.’—who calls me THAT?_

Hermione gasped; no one called her by her initials, but she remembered that her initials were embossed upon her new, leather journal (given to her from a person whose identity was a mystery).

_The mystery gift-giver and the mystery man must be the same person_!

She grabbed her journal; there was nothing written in it. Suddenly inspired, she performed a spell. Sure enough, the spell revealed that the journal was charmed. Hermione then muttered ‘Aparecium,’ thinking that a charm may have been put onto the journal to hide things written in invisible ink; no writing appeared. Frowning, she remembered that this was exactly what she had done and these were the exact results she had obtained with Tom Riddle’s diary in second year. Her body instinctually tensed up.

“Specialis Revelio,” she commanded, tapping her wand at the journal. She then opened the journal and saw, written in a hand she didn’t recognize, the words ‘Write to me, Hermione’.

Hermione inhaled sharply. This was an eerily similar situation to the one poor Ginny had lived through when the teenaged Tom Riddle was writing to her through his old diary. Unless this was where the similarities ended, she knew she’d be in danger if she communicated via this journal, much like Ginny had been.

_But, IF this book reveals the name of Tom Riddle, I could possibly use it to help Harry and the Order._

As much as she’d love to be able to do that, her heart was really hoping that the sender of the journal and author of the message within it were a real, normal guy—her masked man, her mystery dance partner—with whom she could have a relationship with. She hoped against hope.

_‘Who are you?’_ she wrote, nervously.

She waited for an answer, impatiently tapping her Muggle pen (which she preferred over quill and ink) on the page. She tapped and waited for ten minutes before giving up.

_Maybe I have to recite a spell to “send” the message?_ Unfortunately, no spell came to mind. The longer she sat waiting the more nervous she became; this could be dark stuff that she did not want to—should not try to—mess with. She closed the journal with a flourish and started her homework. 

Lunchtime came faster than usual for Hermione as she’d had a lie-in that morning instead of eating breakfast. Her stomach had been letting her know it was not pleased. Feeling guilty for denying her baby nourishment, she practically jogged to the Great Hall (until she realized how much more easily she tired of physical work these days), where she met up with her friends. She did not socialize much; she was famished, and she mentally noted that she should not skip meals in the future.

She ate and was feeling quite satisfied when she suddenly felt nauseous. _Too much too fast!_ Hermione leaped up from the table before dashing toward a bathroom outside of the Hall where she ran, literally, into someone.

“Say, Granger, what are you—” Hermione vomited up what appeared to be her entire lunch right on Cormac McLaggen’s pants and shoes.

“Oi, Granger! Do I look like a loo? Bloody hell,” he shouted as he spun around and rushed away toward the bathroom, looking quite green and using his wand to do what he could to clean his clothes.

Hermione, sweaty from vomiting, stood in shock, covering her mouth with her hands in mortification at what she had just done. Slowly raising her head, she looked around her through her wild curly hair, which was falling in front of her face like a curtain. She then saw that she had an audience; a group of Slytherins (including her historically fiercest tormentor, Malfoy— _Could this situation get ANY worse?)_ wasstaring at her in disgust—more than what was their norm, that is. Hermione felt her face heat up instantly in embarrassment and rage as she hastily pulled out her wand and muttered the Scourgify spell, cleaning the floor of her mess, before running away toward Gryffindor Tower. The laughter of the Slytherins rang in her ears and echoed in the halls as her hot tears stung her eyes and fell in large drops down her flushed cheeks as she scurried away.

Upon her arrival in her dorm, Hermione took a dose of her potion for the nausea and vomiting and then cried for what seemed like hours before her physical and emotional exhaustion overcame her crying and she fell asleep.

Hermione woke a few hours later to the sounds of voices in her dorm. She pretended to be asleep until the voices, belonging to Lavender and Parvati, ceased and she heard them leave the room. Hermione was not at all feeling up to dealing with the gossip of her little incident, which she thought was surely being spread throughout the school at that very moment. She reached under her pillow for her journal.

She had received a response:

_‘Can’t tell._

_Thank you for dancing with me, Hermione. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. I doubt that it will be able to be repeated, and I’m gratified that I got at least one dance with you.’_

_He called me ‘Hermione!’_ Hermione’s heart fluttered in her chest. She closed her eyes for a mental repeat of last night. She then smiled, and her right hand immediately began to pen her response:

_‘Our dances and….you….were quite unexpected. I enjoyed dancing with you very much._

_It’s not exactly equitable that you know me, but I don’t know you, is it?’_

Then, feeling brave, she added:

_‘I’d like to know you.’_

She received no immediate response. _There must be a time delay….or the companion journal to mine, which belongs to the masked man, must have to be closed and then opened for messages to be appear; or maybe who ever is writing to me is just not with his journal now,_ Hermione was thinking as she tapped her Muggle pen on her cheek.

She was not thinking about the possible danger of this book anymore; she just smiled and rejoiced in the fact that she had a connection to the guy she’d had such a nice time with at the Ball.

As the minutes passed, Hermione got lost in her thoughts. She knew that this kind of charm—a Protean Charm—must have been placed on the journal by an advanced student—a NEWT student in their Sixth or Seventh Year ( _probably Seventh_ ), or a very advanced younger student, or….a professor.

_Yuck_.

The thought of her admirer being a professor made her cringe, so she put that thought right out of her mind and mentally went through the male students who were in Advanced Charms with her and then narrowed those down to those matching the physical attributes of the Masked Man (tall, lean, brown hair, and blue eyes). There was no one guy who met those traits.

_Whomever the masked man is, he’s either not in Advanced Charms….or he is and he just transfigured his appearance for the Ball!_

Hermione realized then that the Masked Man could be anyone who was capable of transfiguring his own appearance and it could also be anyone who has a friend who could do it for them. She and her fellow Sixth Years in Advanced Transfiguration had begun learning how to do transfiguration on themselves last December, but a Seventh Year would have had over a year since his Sixth-Year Advanced Transfiguration class to master it. She then thought of which of the seventh-year students were at NEWT-level in Transfiguration, but only one came to mind: Cormac McLaggen. Cormac….who had fancied her all year, who couldn’t keep his hands off of her at Slughorn’s party, who pouted about her not going with him to the Yule Ball, who had pretty much left her alone after Christmas but had still sent a few smolders her way this term….

_True, but he also just swore at you downstairs not long ago_.

Well, yeah, as I’d just barfed on him!

_COULD he be the masked man?_

Now it was her turn to pout. She hadn’t liked McLaggen at all, but she’d very much liked dancing with her mystery guy; she didn’t want them to be one and the same.

_Maybe it’s not him._ _I could even be way off about the whole transfiguration thing! He could have used a charm, or Polyjuice Potion_ —

Hermione suddenly felt very dizzy and nauseous, and it had nothing to do with her being pregnant. _Or maybe it has EVERYTHING TO DO WITH ME BEING PREGNANT!_

_Is the masked man my rapist? Polyjuice Potion was undoubtedly used by my attacker because he wasn’t the real Draco, but he looked and sounded just like him. And any guy who is not opposed to deception once would surely not be above it again. Was I close to being seduced and raped again at the Ball?_ She shivered at the thought.

_But why the two different looks, one being Malfoy and the other being someone different? It was a Masquerade Ball, after all, and his face was completely covered, so why the need for different hair and eyes? Maybe it had been vital for her attacker to rape her while looking and sounding exactly like Malfoy, but for his purposes at the Ball he could be arbitrary about his appearance? Or maybe the appearance of the masked man is his true appearance, and I just can’t place who he is?_

_Polyjuice was definitely used once, but not necessarily twice; transfiguration was not necessarily used at all, though I believe it was._

_Then, am I dealing with one guy acting differently for the same purpose, or two entirely different guys? And do they have the same or different purposes?_

_Please, Lord, please let it be two different guys!_ Hermione prayed forlornly. Her instincts were telling her that the unidentified guys were NOT the same; she’d prefer to know for certain, however.

Hermione obsessed over all of this until she gave herself a headache. She couldn’t work it out, no matter how many times she looked at all of the facts and made deductions on what she didn’t know; letting various scenarios play out in her mind was not the same as definitively solving a riddle, and right now, she just did not have enough information for that.

One thing she knew for certain was that she’d immensely enjoyed her time with the Masked Man, and she wasn’t going to easily let go of the link she had to him. Her instincts were also telling her that he was someone worth getting to know, if for nothing else but to have HIM to dream about instead of Malfoy’s face and body as she relived her time with his doppelganger in the Room.

Dreams of Malfoy, while surely enjoyable in a way, made Hermione feel uncomfortable upon her wakening (or upon her emerging from a daydream); she wasn’t supposed to have pleasurable memories of herself and Malfoy making love. The only feelings she should be having for Malfoy were disdain and ire (and annoyance, of course).

After contemplating it all for a long time, Hermione found herself needing to eat—again. She moved to hide her journal, but the moment she touched it, she wanted to write more in it.

_‘A compromise then? Tell me what you can tell me, and I’ll do the same._

_I will tell you that I loved your cologne._

_And thank you for the journal. It’s beautiful.’_

She then closed the journal and secured it with a locking charm and by re-hiding it under her pillow. She scurried down to dinner, reminding herself not to eat too much or too quickly in hopes of avoiding a repeat of today’s vomiting debacle.

_One good thing did come out of me vomiting on McLaggen,_ she thought happily. _All of his interest in me is surely gone now._

\----------------------------

Hermione, after eating a small, nutritious meal slowly, returned to her dorm room, anxious to get back to check her journal. She performed the unlocking charm on the beautiful, reddish leather journal and opened it up, relishing the smell of parchment and leather. Her heart beat faster as she saw that she had a message.

_‘Hermione,_

_While I can’t be candid with you about some things, I can about others. Compromise accepted._

_I can’t tell you what House is mine, but I will tell you that it’s not Gryffindor._

_I’m pleased you like the journal….is that because it’s Gryffindor red?_

_You smelled good, too. I love the scent of coconut._

_And you looked stunning. You’ve never looked more attractive._

_Your hair looked lovely….but your long curls were missed._

_I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I’m enchanted with you, honestly, and it’s taken me by complete surprise._

_I wish I could hold you again and talk to you, but I’ll settle for communicating with you in our journals and admiring you from afar._

_(I’m sure by now you’ve figured out that I have a companion journal, charmed to communicate only with your journal)_

_Are you seeing anyone? You can’t know how much I’m hoping you say no.’_

As Hermione read the message, her heart swelled. She felt flushed, and she was smiling broadly. ‘ _Stunning, Attractive, Enchanted_.’ Hermione squealed in delight, surprising herself (she was sure that was a first for her)! She re-read the message, and then wrote back:

_‘Why can we only communicate through our journals? Why can’t we meet?_

_I love everything about my journal, but it being red only adds to its already fine appeal. What color is yours?_

_I am not seeing anyone, although there has been someone recently….but my feelings were and are still unrequited. However, I feel myself not caring like I used to. I have not thought about him (or anyone) since our dance._

_Have you been seeing someone?’_

Hermione closed the journal, not knowing if, but hoping that, doing so would ‘send’ her message to her journal’s companion. After a shower and readying herself for bed and for some homework, she returned to her four-poster and opened her journal. Her masked man ( _I have REALLY got to find a better name for this guy!)_ had responded.

‘ _I apologize for not being honest with you; if I could I would, I promise you._

_More of what I can tell you: I play the violin and piano, and someday I’d like to be able to play for you, but I don’t know now how I’d manage it anytime soon._

_I am not seeing anyone, nor have I this year. You’re the only one I’ve thought about for a while._

_And we can’t meet up, at least not now. It wouldn’t be prudent._

_I think I know whom it was that you had feelings for. He’s a right tosser for not realizing what he missed out on, but I am pleased you aren’t with him._

_Please don’t start seeing anyone, Hermione—at least until I can find a way for us to be together._

_I know there are some other blokes interested in you, and some may have good intentions, but many don’t. You see, there are some blokes who are betting on which of them can, to put it politely, get you into bed. They all want you because they believe you’re unattainable—to every chap except THEM. They all have it in their heads that you are pure, and, frankl,y they want to brag about being the first to have bedded the ‘Gryffindor Virgin.’ I’m sorry to be the one telling you this, Hermione, but some of those blokes are right under your nose. Be wary._

_Know that I’m looking out for you whenever I can._

_Good night, Hermione’_

Hermione felt numb with shock over the beautiful things, as well as the disgusting things, she’d just read. She couldn’t even respond right away; all she could do was close her journal and curl up in a little ball and cry. Crying herself to sleep was becoming an unfortunate habit for her.

\---------------------

-March 1997

Hermione and Harry’s relationship had been rockier before, but the ensuing weeks since the Ball had been a close second. He was still annoyingly obsessed about Malfoy being a Death Eater, still practically sleeping with that _blasted_ Advanced Potions book and stupidly ignoring the dangers of it, and now he was chastising Hermione about her little dance with a stranger. To top it off, he was glum and irritable over Ginny still dating Dean Thomas even after their argument during the Ball.

Hermione was, therefore, reluctant to tell him what she had been up to in the weeks since Valentine’s Day. She hadn’t told anyone about her Charmed Journal and her ‘pen pal.’ Her life at present was barmy. The guy she’d been crushing on for a year had basically dismissed her like she were rubbish; she’d been raped; she’s now pregnant; she’s estranged from one best friend and now in conflict with the remaining one; and, to top it all off, she’s the subject of a very filthy and degrading bet.

She knew that she needed something positive in her life, and writing and reading gave her something to look forward to. So, she justified keeping the journal and her admirer a secret from her best friend.

_How pathetic is my life that I’ve become a hypocrite….that I’m so desperate for some words on a page, all for a little bit of happiness?_

When she did think about it that way, she became more depressed about her life, so she stopped thinking about it. She was very stubborn, and she knew she could put that to good use. _Pathetic or not, I will not care._ The messages from her admirer had brought a smile to her face and a flutter in her belly. She loved learning about him, and she loved that, for once, someone was truly interested—truly ‘listening’—to what SHE said. She, Hermione Granger, pegged by all her year as a ‘boring know-it-all whose source of enjoyment came only from studying,’ was an _enigma_ (he’d actually used that word) to one guy who couldn’t seem to get enough of her. This was the attention she’d been seeking, craving, and praying for from Ron for so long, and Hermione was basking in it.

She’d heard that ‘glowing’ was a common description of pregnant women, but when she looked in her mirror and saw her glowing reflection there, she had no doubt that it resulted from her mysterious secret admirer’s influence alone.

\--------------------------

By the first of March, Hermione realized that she was quite over Ron. Ron and Lavender seemed to be getting on just fine, in Hermione’s eyes, and from what her ears gleaned in her dorm from Lavender herself, things were more than fine. Lavender had bragged to Parvati that not only have she and Ron been getting on, they’d been getting IT on. Hermione wasn’t daft; she’d seen the evidence of the physicality of Ron and Lavender’s relationship, so when she learned that Ron and Lavender had intercourse ( _oh, for Heaven’s sake, SEX!_ ), she wasn’t surprised. How little it affected her emotionally was the surprising thing.

Thus, when Ginny came running into Hermione’s dorm room on March Second, the evening of Ron’s seventeenth birthday, telling Hermione that her brother was very ill in the Hospital Wing, Hermione’s concerned feelings were for her friend and not a would-be boyfriend.

\-------------------------

The night of Ron’s near-death, Hermione admitted that she couldn’t condemn Harry for having the Advanced Potions book that had once belonged to ‘The Prince,’ as it was because of the tip about the Bezoar written in the book’s margin that had saved Ron’s life—although, she added (she just couldn’t help herself!), Harry should have known that from second year Potions anyway. When Hermione retired from the Common Room that night, she was tired, but not tired enough that she wasn’t hoping she’d have a new message to reply to upon her return to her room.

She opened her journal and was not disappointed. Her heart beat faster as she read it, though what she read didn’t make her very happy.

‘ _Hermione,_

_Rumor has it that your red-headed friend and his girlfriend are going to break it off, if they haven’t already, and that he wants you. Will you be taking her place?’_

She was stunned; she’d already told her admirer that she wasn’t thinking romantically about anyone except him. A sound of exasperation left her. His words had too much jealousy in them for her taste; while some girls would be flattered, Hermione was not.

_Ok, maybe I am a little, but he just seems TOO jealous to be considered harmless. His drama is not something I need in my life at the moment._

She was confused, disappointed, flustered, miffed, and, of course, tired, and on impulse, letting her unusually high emotions ( _dratted hormones!)_ override rational thought, which she more prone to do these days she wrote back:

_‘No I will not. You should be more careful of which rumors you believe and of what you say—and write.’_

Then, believing she hadn’t quite made her point, she added:

_‘And unless you can behave in a more gentlemanly manner and reveal yourself instead of hiding behind parchment, I suggest you not write me again.’_

She slammed the journal closed (which ‘sent’ the message, she know had deduced) and tossed it onto her bedside table, and laid down to rest her weary head and tired, pregnant body. _Who knew that growing a person inside could be so exhausting?,_ she thought, sighing audibly, trying to focus on her baby and her just-there bump and not on her admirer’s foolishness (and her own, if she was really being honest with herself).

\----------------------

The next morning, she woke to her wand alarm, still tired. As her brain was not yet fully _firing on all cylinders_ as her dad would day, she automatically reached under her pillow for her journal. She panicked when she couldn’t find it there before remembering with a sinking feeling in her stomach what she’d done with it last night and….why.

Sulking, she readied herself for classes, taking her Stomach Stilling Potion before heading down to breakfast. Her nausea and vomiting seemed to be decreasing daily, for which she was thrilled. She was still battling fatigue, though, and she just hoped that she’d get some energy back soon as she needed to start preparing for exams, including the Apparition test next month. Trying to focus on the ‘Three D’s’ was difficult enough for novice apparaters, but while fighting the fatigue of her pregnancy, she’d not yet managed a successful apparition yet. She also had a string of night patrol duties coming up this week that she knew would not help her sleep situation.

The day, including classes, meals, and a Prefect meeting, passed as normal, except without the smoldering looks from McLaggen; she’d had been right when she surmised that after her spewing on him, he’d no longer be pursuing anything with her. Embarrassed though she still was, she was also relieved.

She took her patrol schedule and reviewed it; her patrol partner for the entire week was Malfoy. Harry, though, would probably insist on tagging along; she was glad of it, actually, because she’d missed her best friend. _You’ll need your best friend to cheer you, now that you dismissed your admirer,_ she told herself glumly. Still, Hermione was not looking forward to nights spent with Malfoy and Harry together, so she asked the Head Girl, Cho Chang, to change her schedule.

“Sorry, Hermione. Cormac and I worked on it for so long to get it right that I can’t even think about changing it now. It’s only a week,” Cho said with a yawn, her face showing signs of tiredness, too. With that said, Cho left Hermione to throw herself a pity party (which she did).

Later that night when she informed her fellow Gryffindors with whom she was studying that she needed to head out for patrols, she told Harry she had patrol with another girl and that she would be fine without him as a chaperone. Harry had looked wary, but he had a lot of homework to complete and so reluctantly let Hermione go without him, making her promise to be constantly vigilant and to keep hold of her wand at all times.

Hermione and Malfoy met in the Prefect’s Meeting Room. She had hardly spoken to him since start of term, although she’d seen him in classes—when he’d bothered to show. He had nodded at her curtly when their eyes had met over the course of this term, but there had not been anything resembling their time spent together on holiday.

Tonight, she entered the room and cleared her throat as she saw that he was laying on the couch with his eyes closed. He opened one eye at a time and slowly sat up.

“About time, Granger. I got in quite the kip waiting for you.”

Hermione just rolled her eyes and beckoned with a wave of her hand for him to join her on patrol. She double-checked the pocket of her robe to make sure her wand was easily accessible….just in case Malfoy needed hexing.

They started patrolling the seventh floor. Hermione couldn’t help but remember her attack whenever she was on the seventh floor, and she hoped Malfoy had forgotten about what he’d seen in the train compartment the day after.

Unfortunately, the boy was not dim-witted like the two goons (Crabbe and Goyle, _aka Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-dumber_ ) he surrounded himself with.

“So, Granger, care to answer my question from two months ago? And, for your edification, I’m sure your parents would be quite miffed to see you being so impolite—especially to their favorite of all of your classmates,” he smirked arrogantly.

She groaned. “No. I decline to acquiesce to your request, _Mister Malfoy_. There, how’s that for polite?” she asked sweetly. She knew just what buttons to push with Draco, and so, smirking, she added, “And by the way, their favorite is Harry, not you.”

Draco grimaced.

_And the point goes to me_ , she thought, grinning broadly.

“ _Potter_ ,” Draco said, sneering. Then after a pause, he continued in a jovial tone. “Potter, huh? Not The Weasel King? Why is that, I wonder?”

Hermione actually didn’t know the answer to that question; she did know, however, that for her entire relationship with the boys, her parents had always spoken more favorably of Harry and that her father never was very pleased when Hermione sang Ron’s praises. Not wanting to reveal this (giving Malfoy more ammunition against Ron), but wanting to avoid telling Malfoy that she didn’t have an answer for him, she deflected. “They did, actually, like you. My dad was quite impressed with your manners….as was I—but only because I’d never seen them before.”

Draco looked arrogantly pleased at her first admission, but then scowled at her second.

_Two points for me,_ Hermione thought with a giggle. They walked in silence for several minutes, now beginning to patrol the sixth floor. Hermione jumped when Draco said quietly, “How are they?”

Hermione almost asked, _How are who?_ before realizing (with great surprise) that he meant her parents.

“Oh….they are well, thanks. They just sent a letter last week….they asked about you, actually.” Ugh, she groaned internally. Though they HAD asked after him (and Harry, but not Ron), she couldn’t believe that she’d let that slip to Malfoy!

Draco just raised his eyebrows before schooling is features into his normal unreadable expression. “Glad to hear it,” he said in a stiff manner.

“Glad to hear they are well, or glad to hear that they asked about you?” Hermione teased _._ He ignored her.

_That’s three points for me,_ she mused gleefully.

“So, HERMIONE,” he said, using her first name as he had during holiday while at her home, knowing it would irk her, “I saw you dancing with _Potter_ at the Ball. I thought you said you were just friends,” he said, suggestively raising his eyebrows again.

Hermione smiled; she’d missed his teasing eyebrows, she realized. They looked so much better on his pale, pointed face than his normal scowling and sneering did. Looking at his dark, wiggling brows, she noticed his dreamy grey eyes. _I’ve missed those, too._ At this thought, she abruptly looked away, feigning interest in the portraits on the corridor walls.

“We are just friends, Malfoy, as are Ron and I—well, at least we are trying to be more civil to each other lately since his poisoning.” Things were less strained between her and Ron, even though it was still quite uncomfortable spending too much time together (where Ron went, Lavender followed).

“And then I saw you dancing with some other bloke, the one in the full-face mask. Who was he? He must have a pretty ugly mug—as he wore such a concealing mask….Ah! How could I be so daft? Of course it must have been the Weasel,” he smirked, looking for her reaction.

_One point for Malfoy._ Hermione frowned.

“So who was he, HERMIONE?”

Hermione had tried so hard today to not think of her admirer and the dances they’d shared (goodness knows she’d thought about them everyday previous), and here was her enemy bringing it all up now, like it was part of his tactical plan to torment her. He didn’t know, of course, that it would be such a sore subject, but she was still miffed at him for it. She let out a big, annoyed (and sad) sigh as they reached the bottom of the stairs to the fifth floor.

“I actually don’t know who he was, Malfoy, but it wasn’t Ron. I don’t recall seeing you there. How is it that you saw me? I was after all, wearing a mask, and my hair was different.”

_Four points for me!_ She smiled at her own ingenuity; she knew he’d be flustered and would change the subject or stop talking altogether—which was what she was truly hoping for. His expression did not disappoint; she could tell he was angry at being bested by her comment. He did not, however, let it go.

“Once I spotted _Potter_ —and he’s oh so recognizable with that horrible hair and disfigured face of his—it was obvious that he was dancing with a girl whom could have only been you, Granger,” Draco said, confidently and smugly.

_Blast it. That makes sense_ , Hermione thought and frowned. _Four to two._

They were silent the rest of their patrol of the fifth floor. On the fourth floor, Hermione yawned and slowed her pace. It was difficult keeping up with Draco’s long legs, but more so now that she was so tired. Thinking of her pregnancy, she gave her lower belly a little pat. The action was not missed by Draco. With a quirked eyebrow, he looked at her; she ignored his nonverbal question.

The cessation of her banter with Malfoy allowed her mind to wander, and that was not a good thing lately. Her admirer’s words kept rolling through her mind. She couldn’t believe the outrageous things he’d said, could she? Was there REALLY a bet about her?

“Malfoy, I’m wondering….have you heard of any sort of rumor involving me—besides Ron’s little edict telling guys not to ask me out?”

Draco didn’t answer her right away, and Hermione began feeling stupid for asking him. His face was like stone and hers was flaming red. She braced herself for his hurtful words.

“Granger—” he started before pausing and beginning again. “Yes, there’s been another one,” he admitted stoically.

Hermione let out a breath she’d been holding and said quietly, “And can you inform me of the details?”

“It’s….a wager.”

_Mystery Man wasn’t lying_ , she thought. “Mmm hmm, and is it still going on, or has someone claimed to have won?”

Draco looked at her with actual embarrassment on his face. He remained silent for a minute as they made their way down the stairs to the third floor. His face was once again stoic when he answered. “To my limited knowledge, no one has claimed such,” he informed her quickly, pausing, and then asking, “DID someone win?” He stopped walking and turned ninety degrees to face her.

Hermione clucked her tongue at him in indignance. “That’s not your business!” She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t sure if he should infer her response to be a ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ to his question but that he was definitely trying to determine just that. They stared at each other defiantly for a minute before Hermione began walking again.

_The nerve of him!_

“If I were you, Granger,” Draco began quietly, also resuming walking, “I’d stay away from all guys at the moment—except me because you know I’d have no interest in a bet like that—don’t you?”

Hermione hadn’t listened to what Draco had said. _My attacker didn’t win the bet….Maybe he didn’t bet in the first place….That means he could attack me again to win the bet….Or some other evil little git could attack me to win it._

This new information, though it could inspire fear if she let it, empowered her instead. Hermione grinned; she had the upper hand here. She could do something about this despicable bet! Immediately, she began to plan. She loved plans. When faced with a problem, Hermione Granger planned. And with her quick wit and intelligence (she had been considered for Ravenclaw, after all), she came up with a plan quickly.

_So I need to spread the rumor that someone has won the bet. Then the slimy gits—probably all depraved Slytherins—will give up on the bet,_ Hermione mused as she walked, smiling at her own cleverness.

“Granger,” Draco spoke in an uncharacteristic tone, bringing Hermione back to reality, as they began the patrol of the second floor. “You know I’m not one who’d participate in this bet about you….yeah?”

Hermione was taken aback. _Malfoy’s making it clear that he has no interest in something so vile….That’s quite unconventional for him…._

_Oh! Hermione, you fool! Of course he means YOU, a Muggleborn, specifically_.

She bristled and haughtily said, “Of course I know that, Malfoy. You think I haven’t inferred from your declarations regarding me over the past five years that you’d rather die than be intimate with a Muggleborn—or, should I say a MUDBLOOD—like me?” She quickened her pace, more than ready to finish patrol for the evening. She shrieked when Draco’s right hand grabbed her left robe sleeve and firmly, though not violently, spun her around to face him. His other hand swiftly grabbed her robe sleeved at the right upper arm, holding tightly to the fabric and not her actual person. He was strong enough that he could hold her at mostly arm’s length and she couldn’t move much at all. She thought about slapping his face again ( _I so enjoyed it last time!_ she thought _)_ , but her arms were restrained, pinned to her sides, by his grip. Her wand was inaccessible, too. Surprisingly to Hermione, she wasn’t in pain by the way he was holding her. Completely surprised that he was this close to her (not to mention _touching_ her), she realized that he could be hurting her, but that he wasn’t. His grip on her was attention-getting only, it seemed. Still, she was seething at being handled thusly.

“Malfoy!” she hissed with her head held high in righteous indignation. “Get your hands off me!”

He practically interrupted her. “Granger, I don’t think that way,” he whispered. Hermione cocked her head in confusion at his words and his whisper—and his expression, which showed neither anger nor contempt; it was serious. He looked around nervously and continued, “I meant that I wouldn’t do something like _that_ ….to _you_ or to _anyone_. I wouldn’t _do_ that.”

Hermione was so shocked she could only nod her head and stare at his striking grey eyes; this time, she heard every word he said. Draco let go of her robes, stepped back away from her (he knew what a violent slap she could deliver, after all), and motioned a ‘ladies first’ for her to continue down the hall. She peered at him with her peripheral vision the whole time as they finished their patrol (in silence), and she saw no evidence that he was going to try anything, but she kept her hand firmly on her wand for the rest of the night until she was back in Gryffindor Tower—to which Draco had accompanied her even though their patrol ended in the dungeons, the location of his dormitory. To her question of “What exactly are you doing, Malfoy?” when he’d begun to accompany her from the dungeons up the first floor, Draco had shrugged and simply replied, “I’m keen to keep walking, Granger.” He nodded to her as she stopped in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady in Gryffindor Tower and continued his walk down the corridor.

_And mysterious Malfoy is back._

_\-------------------------_

Draco had learned a lot that night while patrolling with Hermione. He’d learned that she was still just friends with _Potter_ and The Weasel. Considering that practically the whole school had thought for years that something was going on between her and one of them (or both of them), this was a relief.

He had also learned that she didn’t know who her second masked dance partner was, but that she did know that it wasn’t Ron. _Brilliant_ , he thought.

And, as she hadn’t denied that her first dance partner had been Harry, he additionally knew that she didn’t believe her mysterious second dance partner was Harry either. _Good to have those two ruled out_.

What Draco hadn’t learned from their first patrol of the week was what Hermione planned to do about the bet regarding her virginity. _I can’t imagine she’ll ignore it…_. _HAS anyone taken her virginity? She was so vague about it. I couldn’t read her at all…._

He supposed that she’d have to be either daft or extremely brave to do something to squash a bet like this.

_Daft or brave—or both, as they are both equally likely with this witch—she’s quite possibly the most perplexing witch I’m likely to ever meet_ , he reflected as he walked from Gryffindor Tower to the Room of Requirement, tossing up and catching a green apple repeatedly as he went.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A make-up and a mystery revealed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SO SORRY that i messed up when uploading chapters! This is the real chapter 5!

The next evening of patrols began like the previous had, but this time, Hermione brought a textbook to read. Hermione was slightly behind (in her own opinion, that is) in her studies, so she needed to catch up; hopefully, she thought, her studying would have the added benefit of deterring Malfoy from probing into her life like he had the night before, and so far into patrol, he had walked beside her quietly.

While re-reading the last chapter in Advanced Charms for the NEWT-Level Witch and Wizard, she felt a presence behind her. She whipped around, dropping her book and pulling out her wand, only to realize that it was only Malfoy. He had his hands up in a surrendering gesture, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh—sorry, Malfoy, but—what were you doing?” she asked-slash-accused.

Malfoy looked sheepish. “I’m behind in Charms, Granger, so I thought I’d read, too.”

Now Hermione raised and eyebrow and began walking again.

“Granger, as I am behind in classes and you insist on studying at all times of day, even during patrols, we may as well study together while we patrol this week. At least if we’re studying, we won’t be at each other’s throats,” Draco suggested.

The idea had merit, Hermione thought. “Ok, then,” she agreed before she charmed the book to levitate and maintain an appropriate distance in front of and in between herself and Draco.

“Actually, Granger, I can read it better when it’s in front of you and I’m standing behind you,” Draco said as he squinted at the text.

Hermione, realizing that he was probably being honest as she, too, could see the text better when the book was in front of her, charmed the book to read itself to them and to turn its pages automatically, too—no need for Malfoy to stand anywhere that she couldn’t see him. She smirked as she saw Draco’s jaw open in astonishment at her display of magic.

Hermione and Draco studied thusly during patrols all week, and during Friday night’s patrol, he suggested they keep their study sessions going.

“Library, after dinner, Granger?” Hermione bit her bottom lip and crooked her head while she contemplated his idea. She could use a study partner, and Draco was in all of her classes, and he wasn’t playing Quidditch this year, so he’d have more time for studying than Harry did. The offer was tempting, and besides, she was feeling lonely lately.

 _Especially after I dismissed my admirer,_ she thought regretfully.

“Alright, Malfoy, the Library, seven o’clock—but week nights only.”

“Of course, Granger. I do have a thriving social life, you know,” he replied, almost bitterly, she thought, perplexed at his tone.

After patrol Friday night, Draco escorted Hermione back to Gryffindor Tower; in fact, he’d escorted her there after patrol every night the past week, saying, ‘It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, Granger, and—as you know—I have impeccable manners.’

Hermione was drained and as she made her way through the raucous Gryffindor Common Room, she couldn’t wait get to her quiet dormitory. She was about two seconds away from sleep, still in her uniform and her robe, when she noticed a light emanating from under her pillow. She lifted her pillow and saw that the light was coming from her journal, the pages between the leather covers glowing with a soft yellow light. She gasped excitedly and snatched up the journal. When she lifted the cover, the light dematerialized from the pages except for only a thin, horizontal, illuminated stripe several pages into the journal. She flipped to the source of the light in wonder. The light originated from luminescent text: the latest message from her admirer.

_‘Hermione,_

_I am sorry that I was suspicious. Truthfully, I was envious. Please accept my apology and please write to me again.’_

She pondered only for a moment before she started writing.

_Was there really any doubt that I would not?_

She wrote:

_‘I have no feelings besides friendship for Ronald Weasley, no matter the degree of his feelings for me._

_Thank you for your apology. I appreciate a bloke who apologizes._

_I will forgive you on one condition: I need you to help me put an end to the bet. I don’t want anyone to win, and I have a plan.’_

_There_ , she thought satisfyingly as she closed the journal. _I’ll see how much of a man and a friend he is now._

Not long after she had readied herself for bed and begun to read one of her pregnancy books, she saw the journal was illuminated again. An excited little sound escaped her as she tossed her pregnancy book on the floor (definitely a first for her). She grabbed her journal and searched again for the illuminated message.

_‘I take it that the Lumos Charm that I placed on my journal is also working on yours to indicate new messages?’_

Hermione giggled and responded.

_‘Yes. I have to admit that I didn’t realize a charm like that could work like this. That was quite brilliant! I’m impressed.’_

His reply, which came quickly, melted her heart.

_'Thank you, Hermione. I’ve waited for your admiration for so long. I just wish I could see it on your face. You are a brilliant witch whom I have admired for ages._

_That’s why we would be so good together, Hermione._

_I will help you in any way I am able. What is your plan?’_

Hermione wrote fast; she’d had this plan cooked up all week, and so she was completely sure about putting it into action.

_'I want to dispel the idea of me being a virgin; in fact, I want it common knowledge that I am far from virginal. That should make my appeal disappear, thus ending the bet. I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you claim to have won the bet?’_

Satisfied with her plan and what she’d written, she closed the journal. It only took about sixty taps of her Muggle pen on the palm of her hand before light shone from the journal again. Hermione flung the cover open.

‘ _Hermione,_

_I am sorry, but I cannot do that. It’s not because of you. It’s because of my need for anonymity._

_Do you have another plan?_

She read her admirer’s words with half dejection and half understanding; the stinging in her eyes only lasted a few blinks. _It’s a rejection of your plan, not of you_ , she told herself. Hermione, being HERMIONE, had an alternative plan, of course, and she was ready to propose it.

_‘I understand; it’s all right. It was a lot to ask of you—more than what I should have asked._

_My other plan: You spread the word that during the school holidays, I have been with a Muggle boy many, many times and am, therefore, not a virgin.’_

She ‘sent’ the message and waited with baited breath; she didn’t have to wait long.

_‘I think that plan may work, although I’m not keen on spreading rumors about you and tarnishing your reputation. Are you sure, Hermione?_

Hermione’s heart swelled at her admirer’s chivalry; however, she was not to be dissuaded and responded decisively.

‘ _I don’t want my reputation tarnished, but I need it to be thus. I need to feel safe again, and I won’t until I know the bet has been called off. Please start disseminating the rumor immediately.’_

Hermione’sadmirer’s next reply wasn’t as quick in coming as his others had been that evening; she waited close to ten minutes for it.

‘ _Whatever you wish, Hermione._

_I didn’t realize that you feel so frightened by the bet—but I understand….as much as a bloke can, I suppose._

_I almost regret telling you, but I felt that you had a right to know._

_Your fear unsettles me. Frightening you was not my intent, Hermione. I don’t want you to be afraid._

_I can protect you, but I don’t think you will accept my terms.’_

This guys kind-hearted words sent her over the moon and her heart fluttered with happiness, but she had a fair amount of ambivalence about his message.

_He can protect me, but I won’t like the terms? What is he about?_

Curious, she wrote back immediately, hoping that the last line of her message wouldn’t come across as snarky. 

_‘No, don’t regret telling me. I needed to know. Thank you._

_I haven’t felt safe at Hogwarts in a while._

_Name your terms and tell me how you propose to protect me when you can’t even tell me who you are….’_

_\----_

The guy writing to Hermione read her last message and groaned. _I knew she’d bring up my reluctance to identify myself. I was a fool to suggest this._ He deliberated for quite a while before he put his quill to work.

‘ _Hermione, as the end of term comes closer, the bettors’ fervor to win the bet will increase. You may need protection if your plan doesn’t work—though I believe that it will._

_I can be with you to protect you, but I can’t reveal myself to you. My name and my face will have to remain unknown to you. I will have to use transfiguration to disguise myself. Those are my terms.’_

_\----_

Hermione was gobsmacked. _He’s ashamed of me. That’s what the mask and the journal and his refusal of my first plan to end the bet is all about! And why he refuses to meet me properly!_

Tears weren’t just threatening to fall now, and the tears of sadness quickly became angry ones. Even so, she had a niggling feeling that she was being too harsh—that perhaps her anger was her pregnancy hormones, not her rational self, talking. In her anger, however, she dismissed that niggling feeling.

‘ _Don’t do me any favors. If you do not possess the courage to be with me and to let others see, then feel free to forget all about me and live without shame.’_

Hermione slammed the journal cover closed with a huff and threw herself down upon her bed.

_\----_

“Agghh!” Hermione’s admirer yelled when he read her message, kicking at the nearest piece of furniture as he did so. “Insufferable, prideful witch!”

However, he swiftly responded to the message that infuriated him:

‘ _I am not ashamed of you! I want to be near you, I want to talk to you! I want to protect you, Hermione!’_

_\----_

Hermione furiously opened her illuminated journal (as angry and sad as she was, she just couldn’t help herself), and screeched in frustration after she read the message. She was so tired, body and mind.

_This guy and my hormones are going to make me mental!_

I can’t take more of this, she thought, crying softly as she wrote her reply.

_‘Show me who you are or forget about me.’_

She closed the journal’s cover and laid her head down upon it.

_\----_

The admirer scowled and swore after he’d read her note, pacing and running his hands through his hair as he considered Hermione’s ultimatum.

 _It’s come to this, then?_ he thought irritably.

Of course it has! This is Hermione Granger, after all. Obstinate, domineering Gryffindor!

_But it’s the only I option I have._

He sighed and unhappily wrote his decision in his journal, feeling that he would certainly regret it.

_‘I concede. I don’t want us to be over before we even really begin._

_Tomorrow, noon, outside of the Room of Requirement._

_Bring some textbooks if you’d like and your journal (that’s a must), lunch, and your cloak—it’s quite cold in there.’_

_\----_

Hermione gasped upon reading his message. She was elated about everything in his message except for the location he’d designated. Just thinking of going to the Room made her heart speed up. She bit her lip and tapped her pen nervously on her journal. Deciding that she would chance it (as she was a Gryffindor with more-than-adequate defensive spell experience and she already knew to be on the lookout for pink potions being sprayed in her vicinity), she replied:

_‘I’ll be there, but I warn you: if I see that you have asked the Room to provide anything resembling a bed, I’ll hex your bollocks. If you doubt that I can or that I will, just ask Ron Weasley.’_

She fell asleep with her journal under her pillow (and one of her arms clutching it) and a huge grin on her face; no matter her previous anger and trepidation and her current sense of triumph, she was, above all, excited.

That night, she dreamed of her masked man who smelled so incredible and who held her tenderly and respectfully….and who did things to her that could not be described as ‘respectful.’

_\----_

Hermione’s admirer had been nervous while he’d awaited her last response; he rarely was nervous, but whenever he was, it was because of something big. Reading her latest message, the first three words she’d written had made his stomach feel fluttery, which was not something he was used to; but what perplexed him was not the visceral reaction he was experiencing, but instead, the rest of her message had perplexed him.

_Why in the wizarding world would she think I’d request a bed? Ah, she doesn’t trust me. The witch is seriously damaged from the bet, and she’s got her guard up. Good._

He closed his journal, laying it on a table next to a bust wearing a wig and a gaudy tiara. He took a bite of his apple and tried not to choke on it when he started laughing at the thought of Granger hexing Weasley’s bollocks.

_\----_

-March 8, 1997

The day of Hermione’s rendezvous with her admirer was a Saturday, and the Gryffindor Quidditch Team was playing against Hufflepuff in the afternoon (for which Hermione was thankful she had plans during the match so that she wouldn’t have to feign excitement over Quidditch and waste her time watching it—for once). Ron was still in the Hospital Wing after his poisoning, which meant that Cormac McLaggen was playing Keeper in his place (Hermione was also thankful she’d not be in McLaggen’s vicinity this afternoon).

The whole morning, she was on cloud nine; she was giddy with anticipation to be able to put a name (and a face, for that matter) to her admirer. She even tried out some of the Glamour Charms she’d seen Parvati and Lavender use on a regular basis.

She ate a small breakfast and took fruit to eat later as a snack, remembering that her baby needed healthy nourishing snacks all day, and not just huge meals at once; she had to learn the hard way, and that lesson was sticking with her.

 _I don’t believe I’ll EVER forget barfing up an entire meal on McLaggen in front of a group of Slytherins,_ she thought despondently.

As she and her admirer ( _Today, finally, I’ll learn his name and be able to stop these inane nicknames I’ve been using for the last month!)_ had planned for a study date today, she didn’t bother studying for her classes in the morning, choosing instead to read her pregnancy books. At thirteen weeks, her belly was definitely protruding now. Her breasts, too, were a smidge bit larger in recent days, and she was unabashedly thrilled about that; she’d always believed that her breasts were too small to make her attractive. Her normal pants had become tight, but fortunately, she had learned a few handy charms that sized-up her clothes to accommodate her growing body. Today, however, she chose her new jeans that had a wide fit throughout the legs and a baggy jumper. She pulled her hair out of her face with a scrunchie and completed her look with her Muggle Airwalk shoes. Her baggy jumper did a great job at hiding her bump, but she performed the Concealment Charm on her bump anyway as she’d been practicing. For good measure, she also took a dose of her Stomach-Stilling potion.

Deciding that she was properly attired (and, above all, comfortable), that all of her personal rituals had been attended to, and that she had about twenty minutes to make it to the kitchen to pick up lunch before heading to the Room before noon, she gathered up her books, cloak, and wand and left her dorm. She was excited, well-rested, comfortable, and pleased with her stylish makeover, and as she entered the Common Room, she received quite a few admiring (and astonished) looks from people who had not gone yet to the Quidditch Pitch. The jaw of fifth-year Colin Creevey dropped as he took her in, waving while blushing as Hermione smiled at him on her way to the exit. Neville stopped her before she left the Common Room; his expression looked much like Colin’s before he found his courage, apparently, and spoke to her.

“Hermione, umm, Harry asked me to tell you that Ron was hoping you’d come visit him during the match today,” Neville informed her while furiously blushing as he stared at her eyes. She had used a Glamour Charm on her eyelashes and put on a gold eye shadow that made her eyes ‘pop.’

“Thanks for relaying the message, Neville. I have other plans, though, so Won Won will just have to be content with Lav Lav’s company,” she said airily as she waved him goodbye.

She walked confidently to the kitchen and requested food from the house elves. After she’d charmed the basket of food (which was full to the brim) to fit in her beaded bag (which had an Extension Charm and a Feather Light Charm on it), she started toward the Room. It wasn’t long before she was plagued by her thoughts of the last time she’d been in the Room—in addition to her thoughts about how inexperienced she was at dating.

 _You’re seventeen years old and you’re pregnant for goodness sake! Get a grip_ , she told herself.

Trying to regain her confidence from earlier, she recalled how great she looked in her new clothes and with her makeup and Glamours and how much she was looking forward to meeting her blue-eyed, dark-haired mystery man.

_Ugh, I’m so glad I’ll be getting to learn his real name._

Her strategy proved successful, and as she rounded the corner of the corridor that housed the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy teaching trolls to dance, her face was radiant with a natural blush on her cheeks and a pearly-white smile (thanks to a Whitening Glamour and a little UV light therapy done at her parents’ dental office last holiday).

Her smile diminished significantly as she surprisingly came upon two younger girls, both of whom were out of uniform and whom Hermione didn’t recognize, standing opposite the tapestry. They looked unsurprised to see her, however. One of the girls handed her a rolled parchment with an unbroken wax seal. Hermione did not recognize the generic insignia. She raised her eyebrows at the girls, who just raised their own brows at her with none-to-friendly expressions.

Stepping back from them a touch, and keeping the girls in her peripheral vision, she broke the seal and read the note written upon the parchment. She recognized the handwriting immediately and her heart leaped in her chest.

_‘Ask the Room for a place to hide something.’_

Hermione performed the ritual for the Room three times, mentally asking the Room for what she required, just as she had done so many times last year for Dumbledore’s Army meetings. And with that thought, she had a suspicion that her admirer was also a member of the D.A., for who else knew about the Room’s entrance ritual?

The door appeared, and Hermione hesitantly took hold of the handle, opening it only a smidge, as she was unsure if the girls planned to enter with her, and as she had no intention of allowing them to do so. They made no attempt to follow her, however, and upon a quick inspection of what the Room had provided for her, she closed the door firmly behind her and used her wand to lock the door (just in case).

The Room of Requirement had provided Hermione with the Room of Hidden Things, a place that was as large as a cathedral and filled with, well, mostly junk, Hermione thought. Seeing no one, she called out, “It’s Hermione. I’m here,” before she scowled and berated herself for saying ‘I’m here.’

_Of course I’m here—where else would my voice be coming from?_

You’re embarrassing yourself already!

_Oh, do shut up!_

Hermione turned around and looked about her; she saw no one still, and she also didn’t see a bed or floating candles or anything that looked suspicious. Letting out a long breath, she relaxed and tension and apprehension melted away.

Waiting for a reply, she remained still and quiet. She neither saw nor heard anyone—but she did hear music from a piano softly echoing in the huge room. She couldn’t make out from where it was coming, but she could hear it well enough to know that whomever was tickling the ivories was fairly talented.

_More than me, for sure—probably more than Mum even._

She smiled as she remembered that her admirer had told her he wanted to play for her one day. She was pleased by the thought that he felt comfortable enough with her to play for her; she always felt too shy to play for people besides her parents, Harry, or Ron. She ruefully smiled, glad she had not told him that she also plays the piano, for he would most likely ask her to play for him, and, because she was so out of practice, she’d for sure make a fool of herself. She internally groaned when she remembered the disaster of a performance she’d given Draco when he’d visited during Christmas.

When the piano piece ended, Hermione clapped, and as no voice was forthcoming, Hermione took the initiative. “That was brilliant; you obviously have talented fingers.” Her hands immediately flew to her mouth as if she could keep her words from leaving it, but, obviously, her voice had carried them up and away into the cathedral-like Room. She felt like a hussy for saying something that could be interpreted as so forward, so lewd. Her cheeks felt as though they were on fire.

“I meant, um, that—you are very skilled on the piano. Do I get the pleasure of hearing you play the violin next?” She hoped her rushed explanation and her question were diverting enough that her admirer was not thinking of her verbal blunder.

Hermione received no response, but heard a gentle thud far away that was followed by the sound of strings-on-strings. _He’s going to play the violin._ Hermione grinned, and found an old, plush chair on which to make herself comfortable while listening to those ‘talented fingers’ regale her again.

She hadn’t expected to know the piece; she had never progressed far enough with her piano playing to get into the classical pieces, which she assumed he would play, and she wasn’t familiar with violin solo pieces at all. However, after only a few notes, she realized she did recognize the piece. It was Celine Dion’s ballad To Love You More, one of her favorite songs. Hermione had seen the song performed live, with violinist accompaniment, at Celine’s concert that she had gone to with her mum a few years ago. She knew that this was an incredibly difficult piece, and although she could tell that this arrangement was slightly different (and probably less difficult), it was blatant to her that this guy was extremely capable with his instrument. Amazed, she was gushing over his playing (the violin was her absolute favorite instrument to listen to), as well as the mysterious man making the music. Her chest felt tight and there were ‘butterflies’ in her stomach.

All too soon, the song was over, and Hermione was clapping again, feeling a bit silly for clapping for someone see couldn’t even see, but she was genuinely impressed with his performance. And she was genuinely ecstatic to meet him.

_Who is he? Will I recognize him? Oh, heaven help me if he’s too young for me—or if he’s a professor!_

Suddenly she heard a voice calling out to her, interrupting her worrisome thoughts, but she saw no one in any direction as she looked about.

“Hermione? Your journal,” said the voice she couldn’t decipher as it echoed through the gigantic room. She felt butterflies in her stomach and her heart was beating faster, and she couldn’t help the grin on her face. Looking down at her beaded bag, she saw light emanating from what must be her journal. Her grin grew as she reached in for her journal and read the latest message from her admirer:

_‘I’m going to show myself now. Trust me, please, from what you felt at the Ball and what I’ve told you in your journal and how I’ve treated you this year? Please give me a chance. Be your brave Gryffindor self, please, Hermione?’_

Hermione’s eyebrows rose, and she looked around her in alarm. She felt like every cell in her body was telling her to cut and run—except for the parts of her that formed her heart, which told her to trust. Not being completely daft (and not wanting to be like the stupid girls in Muggle movies who walk right into danger without any thought to self-defense), she pulled her wand from her cloak pocket. Closing her eyes for one brief moment, she cried out, “Alright!”

She turned her head around in all directions and sometimes turning her whole body in a circle as well, anticipating her admirer to come out from hiding. She was excited though wary, and so she kept her wand at the ready. It didn’t take long for her to hear his approach, although it wasn’t the sound of footsteps like she’d been expecting; she heard instead a ‘whooshing’ noise from above her head. Looking up and around for the source of the whooshing, she quickly spotted it. A distinctly-male figure was flying on a broom overhead—and doing so with prodigious skill, Hermione noted. As he slowly descending toward her, she saw he was wearing a Hogwarts school uniform cloak, the hood up and obscuring his face.

Keeping his head down, the boy landed and dismounted the broom about three meters away from where she stood. As he slowly came closer to her, he reached up and pulled the hood back before looking up at her directly.

Her smile disappearing and her mouth falling open, Hermione was speechless. Mind and heart racing, she stood immobile (and not from any spell) as her brow furrowed, and her head tilted to one side in confusion.

_No, this must be a joke….He’s just charmed his features….Or, he’s taken Polyjuice….Oh, heavens—he’s my attacker!_

Tears gathered in the corners of her brown eyes as her pupils dilated in fear, and she started trembling, all the while willing herself to move away from the boy but still not able to take one step.

The boy’s eyes were locked onto hers, and he stopped moving toward her. He raised his empty hands, palms up, as a show of good intentions and attempted to banish the onslaught of feelings—feelings of fear, melancholy, loneliness, and heartache—that were halting his movement and sweeping away his courage. The fear, melancholy, and loneliness were emotions to which he was well accustomed, and, therefore, were easy to dismiss. It was the heartache (of which he was not familiar), though, that was not so easily dismissed.

The heartache—the physical gut-wrenching pain and the emotional turmoil—led to instant regret that coursed through him with each beat of his heart. He’d known it—he’d known she’d reject him, even though for once in his life he’d decided to be optimistic and ignore what his intuition had tried to tell him.

_And look where it got me!_

He’d known his plan was foolish, but he’d gone through with it anyway.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was most likely about to incur the ire ofone very formidable witch. He forced his rampant thoughts to focus on the present, and upon doing so, he realized that neither Hermione nor her wand were moving.

_She’s in shock—act fast before she comes to her senses!_

He crossed the remaining distance of about two meters between them swiftly (an easy feat with his long legs). He gripped her like he had when they were dancing at the Ball, his left hand holding her wand-ready right hand while his right hand wrapped around her left arm above her elbow. He bent his knees and tilted his head so that his eyes were level with hers. He’d never seen her eyes look like they did then; she’d made them look even more beautiful.

 _For ME,_ he thought as his heart did a flip in his chest.

 _Well, no not for ME—for someone she thought she could care about_ , _and that someone was obviously not ME_.

Hermione’s doe-like brown eyes, which he had never before seen so clearly or closely, displayed her concern, but they were soft and beautiful at the same time. Her eyes captivated him as he searched them, silently talking to her through them, begging her to trust him.

He did not know—how could he?—how much his eyes had mesmerized Hermione in the past few months, so he didn’t understand just how comforting his eyes were to her in that moment. Through his eyes she saw who he really was; she saw of all of the tenderness she’d witnessed in him recently. Like a switch, she realized that she could—that she DID—trust him, and she came out of her shocked state and relaxed—minimally—into his embrace.

“You? You want to be here with ME?” she asked in a trembling voice as the trembling in her limbs subsided.

He nodded. “Quite a lot, actually,” he admitted in a whisper, still keeping her gaze as he slowly stood up to his full height. Hermione’s gaze never left his pale grey eyes. After a minute of standing thusly, Draco stepped even closer to her and gently pulled her into him, her upturned head tucking in under his chin so that her right temple rested on his collarbone. He rested his chin against her forehead, his left hand sliding up to her upper arm and his right hand sliding to her left shoulder blade so they were in an almost-no-space-between them hug.

Their individual shyness and inexperience with such physical contact was the only thing preventing them from moving in closer; it was the only thing preventing him from feeling the slight bump on her lower abdomen, which was not a concern of hers at the moment. Her bump, her baby, her rape, the Prophecy, the impending war, the fact that she was embracing a former enemy—none of that was even a blip on Hermione’s radar at that moment.

A part of her still couldn’t believe that he was her admirer, but then another part of her felt like she’d known all along. Standing in his embrace felt familiar and comfortable; his cologne sure was (it was indeed the same scent she had admired during their dances), and she eagerly inhaled it.

But was he legitimate? Were his changed demeanor, their dances, their trysts with their journals (including his utterly caring words), and THIS all genuine? And could she trust HIM—not the journal-him, not the dance-partner-him? She’d looked in his eyes and had thought she’d seen all she needed to see—to know—but her rational mind wouldn’t be silent. Part of her was screaming ‘run,’ while the other was screaming ‘stay.’ She’d never felt more confused. This was the boy who’d teased her and swung verbal insults her way for years; it was also the boy who’d recently treated her as close to his equal as she could have ever expected.

All of her emotions bubbled to the surface, breaking out in tears like water overflowing a dam, falling off of her cheeks and wetting his shirt. Feeling the wet spot, he crooked his neck and head to look at her face, which caused her to lift her head and look back at him. Large tears spilled over her unusually long and thick lashes, and he once again was overcome with insecurity. His grey eyes searched hers, his body tensed in anticipation of her rejection.

Hermione hadn’t been aware of her tears. She looked up into his gorgeous grey eyes, questioningly, before she became aware of the large droplets rolling down her cheeks. Immediately embarrassed, she hastily wiped them away; his and her bodies were no longer touching, and she felt cold.

“I make you cry?” he asked in a flat tone. He usually didn’t have patience for crying females (nor did he usually care, nor did he know what to do about it), but with Hermione, he felt differently.

She shook her head furiously, her bushy ponytail swishing and smacking her ears. She sniffed. “It’s just hormones, I cry a lot lately,” she said quickly without thinking.

 _Ugh, what the heck was I thinking saying that?_ She thought and then answered herself with, _You need to see Madam Pomfrey for something to combat these mood swings and this ‘pregnancy brain’ before you convey to the entire school that you’re an unstable and daft—or that you’re PREGNANT._

Thinking of the cause of her crazy hormones made her briefly, and unconsciously, caress her bump. She realized her mistake too late, though, and blushed furiously, refusing to make eye contact with Draco.

His eyes had darted down to catch the action but darted back up to her face just as quickly. He was silent as he waited for her gaze or her words—or her leaving him.

Wincing, Hermione thought, _Now he’s going to make some crass comment about it being my ‘time of the month’, like Ron and Harry would._

“You’re right; is it cold in here,” she said, attempting to divert his attention, as she turned in search of her cloak. She found it and swung it out behind her; Draco was there in a flash to grab it and assist her, startling her in the process. Draco sucked in a breath in response to Hermione’s slight flinch and gasp. It took just a second for her to realize that he was just being a gentleman (after all, she wasn’t used to such behavior from the boys she usually spent time with), and she blushed in embarrassment for her rash judgment but smiled weakly and thanked him, looking into his grey eyes as she did so. She could get lost in those eyes, she surmised. Snapping out of her dreamy state caused by said eyes, she took in Draco’s expression; usually so stoic, there instead was shyness about it, which Hermione assumed was due to his act of chivalry. She teased him to break the ice.

“You know….Slytherins can be chivalrous without their House loyalty being called into question; but if it will make you feel better, I won’t tell a soul,” she said with a mischievous smile.

He smirked back at her, raising an eyebrow, his grey eyes glinting and his shyness fading away.

“I DO have a reputation to uphold, Granger, so your silence on the matter would be greatly appreciated,” he said in a fake arrogant tone, still smirking as he gave her an mock bow.

 _Always with the smirking,_ she thought, smiling. “So I’m relegated to being _Granger_ again? No more _Hermione_?” she said boldly—flirtatiously—while nervously fiddling with her wand.

 _What was THAT?!_ she thought as she blushed furiously. _I’m like a girl fiddling with her keys in anticipation of a goodnight kiss at the end of a date for heaven’s sake!_

He smiled, his face lighting up like she’d never seen, at her flirty tone. _His smile is amazing_ , Hermione thought. _And I know for a fact that he’s never had dental work done, which makes it all the more impressive_. _Crikey, I hope he never stops smiling at me like that._

“Granger, you can’t expect me to change a six-year-long habit overnight,” he said quietly and with a now-miniscule smile. The shy look was back, making Hermione think that he was perhaps referring to more than just his habit of calling her by her surname….perhaps he was referring to his old derogatory term for her: Mudblood.

Phishing, she said in a friendly but earnest tone, “No, I don’t expect that—I….I never expected it, but….you’ve made great progress thus far, and I….I’m pleased that you call me _Hermione,_ now.” She hoped he’d read between the lines of what she was saying to hear what she _wasn’t_ saying.

He was silent, but she could tell that he understood her message perfectly. He adopted a fake conceited expression and tone and said, “Well, then, I say we forget about any names we have used in the past, and from now on, I will call you Hermione, and you will call me Draco.”

Hermione wagered that this was the closest to an apology that she was likely to ever receive from Malfoy (this Malfoy or ANY Malfoy) and that it was probably not easy for him. She was happy to oblige him.

“Agreed, _Draco,”_ she said with a smile. She placed her wand in her cloak pocket and extended her right hand for a handshake.

 _Bloody hell, her smile is worth what ever it takes for me to elicit it_ , he thought. He grabbed her hand firmly and shook it gently.

Hermione timidly stepped into him again and rested her head ever so lightly against his collarbone, her chin up and her nose level with his adam’s apple, and her hip touching his so that her bump was not touching him; she had, by now, remembered that she wasn’t able to hug anyone without her bump (which was charmed to be only invisible to sight) being felt.

A contented sigh from Hermione melted away Draco’s feelings of trepidation, and he let himself breathe a sigh of relief, feeling his heart rate slowing at his own contentment. They held one another thusly for a few minutes, neither wanting it to end. In the Room of Hidden Things, it was the Masquerade Ball all over again, although this time they both knew whom they were embracing.

\----

After their first rendezvous in the Room of Hidden Things, Hermione had reservations about meeting with Draco even within the confines of the Room; her apprehension wasn’t due to anything Draco had done, though….it had to do with Dobby the elf.

Harry had ended up in the Hospital Wing earlier that day during the Quidditch match. Hermione had heard about Harry’s injury (a cracked skull, courtesy of Cormac McLaggen) that evening at dinner, long after Harry had been admitted to the Wing .Right away, she had rushed to see him, finding him and Ron (still convalescing from his poisoning the Saturday before) discussing Draco’s behavior.

“I’ve never seen Malfoy using any passageways to get out of the castle,” Harry had mused, looking at the Marauder’s Map. Hermione had tensed at this statement. _Is he about to realize Draco is going into the Room of Requirement?_ She’d put on her best innocent expression and had tried to think faster than Harry; she had to keep him from discovering Draco’s sanctuary for solitude (and his and her secret meeting place, of course).

She knew Draco would not take kindly to anyone knowing about the two of them, and she wouldn’t either, honestly. The son of a Death Eater and a best friend to Harry Potter being known to be ‘together’ would lead to all sorts of danger, not to mention that Ron and Harry would have kittens should they find out that she was crushing hard on Malfoy. If Harry or Ron found out, one or all four of them would end up being hexed, and her relationship with Draco would most likely not survive. It was too special and too new for her to risk losing it by telling her best friends the truth.

_Sometimes, what you don’t know can’t hurt you._

Before Hermione had been able come up with any plausible reason for why Harry never saw Draco leaving the castle, she had been interrupted by a cracking sound—two, in fact. While Hermione was lost in her thoughts, Harry had summoned Kreacher and Dobby. He then had proceeded to assign them a task: to follow Malfoy ‘when ever and where ever.’

Hermione’s existing anxiety about her relationship with the maleficent Slytherin being discovered had increased significantly. Before knowing that the house elves were going to be tailing Draco, she hadn’t been worried about being seen heading to the Room; the corridors near it weren’t frequented by students or staff regularly. She hadn’t been worried about her and Draco being discovered once they were in the Room either; Hermione and Draco had already decided that they would meet far from the entrance of the Room so that they would hear any newcomers to the Room of Hidden Things long before they’d see them (or be seen by them). However, now that the sneaky little elves were going to be Draco’s shadows, Hermione was worrying that his secret hiding spot, and her own involvement with him in said spot, would be discovered.

Hermione sighed at the thought that she wouldn’t be able to do anything about the elves following Draco; she couldn’t tell him because then she’d be betraying Harry, and she couldn’t stop the elves from following Draco without raising the suspicions of Dobby, who was fiercely loyal to Harry.

 _Huh, like you used to be_ , she thought to herself, to which she countered with, _Oh, shut it!_ Just being more cautious was the only option available to her in this situation.

 _None of this would even be an issue if it weren’t for the Map,_ she thought. _If the Map didn’t exist—if Harry had no idea of Draco’s presence or absence at all—then Harry wouldn’t be so obsessed about discovering where Draco goes._

Silently cursing Harry’s Map and the Marauders who had created it, she said goodnight to the boys and hustled up toward Gryffindor Tower. The Map, she realized on her trek back to the Tower, had done her relationship with Draco a favor; it was because of the Map (and its owner, her nosy best friend) that she knew that the real Draco Malfoy had not been the bloke who had raped her.

 _I suppose I owe the Marauders thanks for that blasted map, after all_ , she thought grudgingly.

That information had allowed her to get to know Draco better first during the Christmas Holiday, then while on patrols, and now while spending time with him in the Room. She was learning more about him—more about his character and personality—the REAL him—the man behind the mask, so to speak. She saw no evidence that he had rapist qualities. She knew that it wasn’t the safest thing for her to be alone with him or any male (save Harry or Ron….and probably Nevile) at the moment, but she followed her instincts, which told her that Draco would not harm her.

Word of her ‘Muggle boyfriend’ and the fake news that she was not a virgin would soon be spread around school by Draco and the gossips of Hogwarts. She was confident that no guy would be looking to take advantage of her once the bet was called off. Even if the bet didn’t get called off, she was spending all of her free time in Draco’s presence, and she was confident that she’d be safe by doing so.

_\----_

The Room of Hidden Things held many things of varying ages; some items appeared to have been there for decades or longer, but the newest thing (and surely the most curious and scandalous to anyone in the Castle, provided that it became common knowledge) that was hidden in the Room was the secret relationship between Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.

Since their very first meeting in the Room, Hermione and Draco’s relationship would be best described as ‘a new friendship that bordered on a romantic one.’ Everything was tentative between the two of them. The physical part of their relationship had started off as a timid embrace and had not become anything more intimate in the week since their first meeting in the Room. The majority of their time together was spent not touching, but when they did touch, it was hand holding with a few instances of a light, respectful touch on a hand or a back.

Every night for the entire week after their first tryst, Hermione ate dinner (remembering not to eat too quickly) and then headed up (with Harry or another appointed ‘escort,’ of course) to the Library. Her escort would then leave her there, under the ever-watchful eye of the trustworthy Madam Pince, the Librarian. Hermione would then sneak off to the Room. Once Hermione realized that Draco was frequently missing meals, she started to covertly bring him food from the dining hall. The first time she had brought him food, which had consisted of bread, fresh fruit, and a few slices of meatloaf wrapped in a napkin (a poor-excuse for a dinner meal, in her opinion), he’d looked at her with incredulity. He promptly thanked her (Hermione was still flabbergasted whenever she heard him apologize or express his thanks) and devoured the food, although his table manners were much better than Ron’s (and Harry’s, for that matter).

Hermione had learned that Draco was frequently in the Room; he’d told her that he liked the quiet of the room for studying, playing the piano and violin, and getting away from Crabbe, Goyle, and (to Hermione’s extreme delight) Parkinson. Hermione had a feeling that he slept there on occasion, too.

Over the course of the week following their initial tryst in the Room, Draco performed on the piano and violin again a few times for Hermione, playing in front of her instead of tucked away out of view like he’d been at their first meeting in the Room. His initial apprehension had dissipated and was replaced by an eagerness to have her undivided and rapt attention, which he’d craved for years. The first time Draco had played for Hermione had been for two purposes; one, to prove to her that he was the man behind the journal (who was the man behind the mask, as well); and two, to show off.

An unexpected bonus of him performing for her was that she’d sing if she knew the words to the piece and hum if it had no words or if she did not know them, he assumed. She sang quietly, as if not intending for Draco to hear (although he did usually hear her over his playing, and if not, then he’d diminish his playing of the piece to hear it). Obviously, she was shy about singing in front of him, but also obvious was her love of singing; her voice exuded passion, and she sometimes closed her eyes when she sang.

After the first time she accompanied him with her voice while he played, his motivation to play became only to elicit her singing. Playing usually relaxed him, but he’d been amazed the first time he had heard her sing because it took his relaxation to a new level. When Draco played his instruments when he alone was in the Room, he relaxed some and he was completely distracted from the pressure of his tasks. He quickly learned, though, that Hermione’s singing did more to calm his troubled mind than his playing did (more than anything did, in fact). He endeavored to play for her so that she’d sing for him every time they met in the Room.

Since the Ball, he’d replayed their dances and her singing so many times, and now, since their time in the Room had begun, he was practically giddy each time she serenaded him with her pretty little voice. Pretty it was; it could only truly be considered to be a fair singing voice—and he would know, as he had grown up listening to his mother’s professionally trained singing voice.

Narcissa had frequently sung to Draco as a tot up until the time his father had decided that he was too old for such ‘coddling,’ as Lucius had termed it; Draco had been five years old at the time. His mother had secretly continued to sing to him at bedtime (when she was home to put him to bed and not out at balls or other such frivolous events) up until he told her that he was ‘too old for lullabies’; he’d been eleven and was to be off to Hogwarts soon. Although he’d never asked her to resume their bedtime ritual, he’d always enjoyed hearing her sing while she played the piano or the harp or accompanied him while he played the his instruments. She truly was an accomplished vocalist, frequently entertaining her guests or providing entertainment at her friends’ dinner parties.

Draco wished he could bottle Hermione’s little _arias_ , as he’d come to call them,and listen to them in his dormitory, or have them with him while he was working in the Room….or wherever and whenever his thoughts became dark and his anxiety threatened to overcome him….when his love for his mother felt like not enough to do what he was expected to do but couldn’t bring himself to do….and when he missed the little Muggleborn witch in a way he couldn’t explain.

After the Ball—after having danced with her and hearing her sweet serenade, after having experienced her trust, and after seeing her genuinely smile at him—Draco’s resolve to maintain his distance from her had crumbled quickly. Meeting with her face-to-face had been a huge risk; he’d gambled a lot in deciding to abandon the anonymity of the journals in favor of seeing her and touching her again. It was only the fear of losing her that made him rashly decide to risk her seeing him without the mask (the figurative one and the literal one). He was happy he took the risk the first time with her and he continued to be happy about it—after that first time, he hadn’t regretted his gamble one bit. He hadn’t been so happy in years. What had begun as prying, sleuthing, and reconnaissance had become an addiction that he never could have anticipated. While he had always been taught that addictions are best avoided, there was no avoiding the addictive entity that was Hermione Granger; he had no inclination to avoid her. She was his fix; she was his therapy.

Some of Hermione and Draco’s rendezvous were strictly study sessions and some were spent in conversation. They both felt that it was awkward to have known the other for five-plus years but to have not REALLY known much about the other. So they started at their literal common ground, Hogwarts; questions related to school were first, although anything related to their respective Houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin was taboo, for obvious reasons.

The other topics for easy discussion were the piano, music, books, and then other hobbies. For Draco, the topic of hobbies included Quidditch, and to Hermione’s astonishment, she wasn’t bored to tears as she always was when listening to Harry, Ron, Viktor, and Cormac talk about Quidditch. For Hermione, talking of her hobbies consisted of discussing her favorite genres of literature, her favorite authors, and her favorite libraries.

Draco suggested she take advantage of the piano in the Room and take up playing again, and he’d even convinced her to share the piano bench and attempt a duet with him once. They both were so nervous about their hands and bodies being in such close proximity that neither played well; however, Hermione was glad for this because she figured that Draco would realize that her poor playing for him and her parents over the Christmas Holiday was also due to her nervousness (she did resolve, though, to practice more while in the Room).

When these topics were exhausted, questions relating to their ‘favorites’ were the next logical conversation pieces. They learned each other’s favorite school subjects, colors, foods, sports (Draco’s was, of course, Quidditch, and Hermione’s was ‘non-applicable,’ to which Draco chuckled), etc.

Then came the less obvious questions, like, _Do you have pets?_ Draco told Hermione that he and his parents owned several dogs, but that his own dog was an Airedale Terrier named Hunter, and that Hunter was so named because the breed was originally created for help in hunting otter.

 _Otter, huh?_ Hermione thought and mentally smirked as she found it funny that Draco’s dog was a hunter of the animal into which her Patronus formed. _My otter patronus had sent a message to Draco’s parents during the holiday and had given Draco’s regards to Hunter, his dog, an otter hunter. How ironic._

Draco informed Hermione that Airedales are very protective of their human family, unfriendly to strangers and other animals (including cats), and naughty if allowed to be bored. Hermione giggled at this, almost choking on the apple she was eating. Draco raised a brow, but smirked nonetheless; he was aware of the similarities between himself and his dog, and he, too, could see the mild humor of it.

Then the popular-but-cliche question of _When is your birthday?_ was uttered. When Hermione told Draco her birthdate, she off-handedly remarked that her half-birthday was only a few days away, and that she usually got to be with her parents for it, but that she wouldn’t this year as it didn’t coincide with the Easter Holiday. Draco raised a brow at this, and Hermione remembered that the concept of a ‘half-birthday’ was a Muggle construct only, so she explained it.

“Well, I think that Jean and Charles would be quite miffed if you didn’t get to celebrate your _half-birthday_ , so we should celebrate it together,” Draco suggested, surprising Hermione (for starters, she couldn’t believe that he remembered her parents’ names!). “I’m already their favorite of your, um, friends, but it never hurts to continue to outshine the competition,” Draco added with a wink.

Hermione noted that he looked a bit red-faced out of embarrassment from not knowing how to describe their relationship, and her heart fluttered. She fake-scoffed and rolled her eyes, but grinned at him afterward saying, “Ok, we’ll celebrate it, then. It’s next Wednesday.”

_\----_

-March 17, 1997

A little over week after Hermione’s first rendezvous with Draco, Harry’s elf informants found Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the Gryffindor Common Room. Hermione found herself holding her breath as the elves began their account of Draco’s activities over the past week. They’d been following him night and day, they said, and Hermione was scrunching up her face—bracing for the impact, as it were—in anticipation of her secret trysts being revealed.

“The young Malfoy has been attending his classes, but he misses many classes. He eats in the Great Hall, but not every meal; in fact he misses most meals in the Hall,” Dobby reported. Hermione breathed out a sigh of relief. “He goes into the kitchens during the nights, sometimes. The young Malfoy is many, many times going up to the seventh floor, Harry Potter.”*

Hermione sucked in a quick breath. _Here it comes,_ thought Hermione, clasping her hands together, elbows on her knees, and resting her forehead on them.

“….and he left the castle to go to a jewelry store in Hogsmeade,” finished Dobby.

Hermione perked up at this. _Jewelry store?_ She was itching to ask Dobby for more details, when Harry exclaimed that ‘Draco MUST be buying more jewelry to charm with a curse like he had done with the one Katie Bell had touched.’ Hermione rolled her eyes and ignored Harry’s ranting, until she heard what Kreacher was saying in his low, menacing voice.

“Master Malfoy, the youngest heir of the most noble families of Black and Malfoy, has a fine bone structure and manners….” Kreacher extolled.*

The boys scoffed, but Hermione had a different reaction: _Fine structure…yes, definitely fine…._ she thought, smiling giddily.

An indignant, squeaky voice shouted, bringing Hermione out of her daydream.

“Draco Malfoy is a bad boy, a bad boy who—” Dobby proclaimed.*

_Hmm, Draco a bad boy? He’s not soooo bad. He’s like a GOOD bad boy…._

Harry’s yelling brought Hermione out of her thoughts the next time.

“Shut it, Kreacher! We don’t need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy!”*

Hermione snapped to attention at those words, thinking Harry was calling her out about her relationship with Draco. Realizing that Harry had been only talking to Kreacher, she sighed again out of relief. She was having a very difficult time NOT thinking about Draco’s endearing personality….his beautiful eyes….his strikingly handsome smile….his fit body….and how his body looked naked….

 _Oh, sorcerer’s stones, I shouldn’t think of THAT….now._ Feeling her cheeks heat furiously, she looked down into her lap so her long hair would hide her red face and huge grin from the boys.

“The young Malfoy is going to the tapestry on the seventh floor,” Dobby said. The Trio (well, the Duo, as Hermione already knew this bit of information) immediately knew that Dobby was referring to the tapestry across from the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Harry was ecstatic, thinking that he’d be able to find out what Draco was doing in there.

“No, Harry, it won’t be that easy,” Hermione said. “You won’t be able to summon the room Malfoy is in because, without knowing what it is that he is doing, you don’t know what it is that you need the Room to become.” Hermione said it convincingly (and truthfully) and with a bit of guilt about keeping her and Draco’s secrets from Harry. Guilty or not, though, she was not about to divulge the secret.

_As long as he doesn’t ask the Room for a place to hide something, Draco and I won’t be discovered._

It took Hermione a few seconds to realize that Dobby was continuing with his tale.

“Yes, the Malfoy boy is going there with a variety of students,” he reported.*

Hermione sat up straighter and bit her lip as her heart began to race and wondered if she were about to be outed—for all of about five seconds. After that, the green monster inside her reared its ugly head over the words ‘variety of students.’

_A variety of students? Other GIRLS?_

Was she not Draco’s ‘only’ as he was her’s?

_Was he buying jewelry for another girl?!_

Pondering this new information, she didn’t hear anything else, and as she pondered, the green monster inside grew until Hermione was jittering from anxiety fueled by said monster. She quickly excused herself from the conversation and went to bed where she tried, unsuccessfully, to keep her mind off of Draco and his ‘variety.’ She had a fitful rest and got little sleep that night, resolving in the morning that she would get some answers from Draco later.

She just hoped and prayed that the ‘new’ Draco she had come to know in the past week (well, months, really) would be open to the discussion without getting angry, and that she wouldn’t destroy the relationship they had begun to build.

_\----_

Hermione used the next day to catch up on her studies and homework that she had neglected in the past week. All day, she waited to see her journal glowing and to see Draco in the Great Hall for meals; she ended up being disappointed on both counts. 

Having finished all of her schoolwork before dinner, she returned to her dorm afterward and read up on what would be in store for her pregnancy-wise in the next few weeks. She was fourteen weeks pregnant now, and her baby was about the size of a small apple. She hadn’t needed any Stomach-Stilling potion in the few days, and she was beginning to feel more energetic. She’d also begun to become hungrier; she tried to always have food (her favorite snack currently being tart, green apples) in her bag or in her cloak pocket in case she became hungry between meals, which seemed to happen every three hours. She read that if she had a Muggle doctor, she’d be getting an ultrasound done to check on the baby’s growth, but that a qualified Magical Healer could perform the magical equivalent to an ultrasound. Checking her planner, she saw that had an appointment this coming Wednesday (her half-birthday) after dinner. _Great_ , she thought, _I can get that done before meeting Draco._

_\----_

The next two days passed uneventfully for Hermione. She and Draco hadn’t been able to meet in the Room; he had written to her explaining that he had a big project due and asking her to forgive him. Flabbergasted by his apology, she had of course agreed to do so, but by Wednesday evening at dinner, she was an anxious little ball of energy.

Feeling extra-aware of the life inside her, as she was due to see Madam Pomfrey regarding said life after dinner, she ate a very healthy meal before heading to her appointment.

Madam Pomfrey was waiting at the Wing doors for her, and locked them upon her entry. Hermione scanned the Wing and was relieved when she saw that she was the only patient there. Madam Pomfrey had privacy screens up in the far end of the Wing, but she instead directed Hermione to first go use the Hospital lavatory and to pee in a cup. Hermione had made a face at the Madam (to which the Madam made one back) before complying. Hermione returned to the screened-off area for her consultation with Pomfrey. Hermione assured her that she was taking her vitamins daily. Madam Pomfrey was very pleased with Hermione’s vital signs and the results of the urine test from the sample Hermione had provided.

The usually ‘all-business’ Healer actually smiled at Hermione and asked her if she’d like to see her baby for the first time. Hermione was taken aback by the Madam’s excitement, and she wondered at the fact that the Madam seemed more excited than Hermione felt. Hermione was interested in seeing the magical ultrasound, but she didn’t feel excited. She wasn’t looking forward to having a baby or being a mum. She felt lonely and sad. She was teenager for cripe’s sake—a teen who was having a baby without the support of its father. She didn’t even know who the baby’s father was. This was the exact opposite of everything she had always imagined when she’d thought about having a baby. She wished a loving husband (or even a boyfriend) and soon-to-be father were there with her now. She wished her mum could be there now. Or even a caring friend. Harry offered to accompany her, of course, but he had Quidditch practice, and, as he was the Captain, he couldn’t skive off.

Madam Pomfrey directed Hermione to unbutton her pants and to roll them down to expose as much of her low abdomen as possible. She then placed a firm pillow under Hermione’s buttocks “for a clearer view,” the Madam said. Madam Pomfrey swirled her wand in a series of complicated motions while muttering a spell, and before Hermione’s eyes came a three-dimensional image of what was inside of Hermione’s womb.

Hermione was fascinated. She loved magic always, but at that moment she felt extra loving feelings toward it and more thankful for it. She was amazed at how much of the baby she could make out at this early point of her pregnancy. She started to comment to Madam Pomfrey, but upon seeing the expression on the Healer’s face, she stopped and gasped, “Is there something wrong, Madam?”

Pomfrey shook her head and smiled slightly, but Hermione felt strangely terrified. Pomfrey performed another swish of her wand while saying an incantation, and an anxious Hermione watched as the image of her womb rotated.

“You’re going to have twins, Hermione,” said the Madam to a shocked young witch with big brown eyes looking at the image with her eyebrows raised and her mouth agape.

\---- 

Hermione slowly walked away from the Hospital Wing after her appointment with Madam Pomfrey ended, carrying her heavy rucksack (which Pomfrey had told her would soon become too heavy for her to carry without a Feather Light Charm placed on it, as she was carrying twins) over her shoulder, her mind flooded with information the Madam had given her.

Besides the fact that she was carrying twins, Madam Pomfrey had told Hermione that her pregnancy wasn’t going to be normal. Words like ‘complications,’ ‘more checkups,’ and ‘Muggle doctor,’ had been heard by Hermione, who had really tried to pay attention to the Madam; nevertheless, she knew that she hadn’t heard everything the kind Healer had told her. The Madam had seemed to realize this, too, as she’d asked Hermione to return to the Hospital Wing again tomorrow night after dinner. Hermione had nodded, thanked Pomfrey, and left in a haze, consumed by her thoughts—and not remembering her date with Draco.

She walked to Gryffindor Tower and to her dormitory, where she dropped her rucksack containing her journal and textbooks on the floor and promptly climbed into her bed, closing the curtains. She lay on her back, staring up at the canopy above her, her hands resting on her baby bump.

Hermione knew that everything she’d endured thus far in her short life had made her innately strong self even stronger—and she was glad for it—but she wasn’t sure she was up to this new challenge. She’d barely accepted the fact that she was going to have a baby, and now she was grappling to come to grips with the fact that she was going to be having two babies— _going to be_ carrying _two babies, going to be_ birthing _two babies, going to be_ feeding _two babies, going to be_ changing double nappies _, going to be_ even busier _than I’d_ thought….

When it came to her ability to handle the added responsibility that an additional baby would bring, she was not convinced. She’d been contemplating adoption already, and now she was even more confident that it was what she was going to do—that it was what she SHOULD do. She was well aware that the babies would be blessings to another woman and man who couldn’t have children, and she felt very gratified in knowing that she could help them make a family. In addition, she wouldn’t have any responsibilities after she gave birth to the babies, and, as an added bonus, she wouldn’t even have to tell her parents she was pregnant. The only snag in this plan that she foresaw was HOW—and THAT was a really big snag. She hoped that she could do it without involving Dumbledore and the Order, but she really didn’t think this would be possible; she had no idea how to go about this, or if there was anyone outside of the Order whom she could trust. Should she try to adopt out the babies into a home in the Magical world or one in the Muggle world? Should she try to find a home for them herself or should she contact an agency?

She quickly realized she was out of her depth with this. She needed help, and she decided to start with the person who had been with her from the beginning of this debacle; so she hastily wrote to the Headmaster. She resolved to also ask Madam Pomfrey tomorrow if she had any connections to help her facilitate the adoptions.

Feeling that she’d done all she could at the moment regarding the process of adoption for the babies, she started reading her pregnancy books, both Magical and Muggle, on the topic of Twin Pregnancy. Having a Twin Pregnancy, she read, meant that her pregnancy was now termed “High Risk.” Hermione poured over every page of her books that related to 'high risk pregnancy,' reading every word carefully trying to learn about everything she could do for her own health and that of the babies.

She soon began crying when she read that not only would her body go through more with a twin pregnancy, but the babies could be in danger. One or both of the babies could die, and she could even die, she read.

It wasn’t going to be easy, but none of this, she vowed—not her rape, not her pregnancy, not her body’s changes, not the complications, not the pains (physical and emotional) that she would endure—would end up being for naught. The babies would help defeat evil and save her friends and then they would have a happy and safe life while making a couple very happy. Hermione would ensure that the Prophecy was fulfilled and that the babies had a wonderful home, and then she would be free to live her life of her own volition, with no one and no prophecy getting in the way.

_\----_

_* text taken from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, by J.K. Rowling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read this story! (I have 21 chapters complete so far, so updates will go quickly for a while!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's Dark Mark is revealed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so sorry for my mistake in updating the last 2 chapters! this is the real chapter 6!

-March 20, 1997 

Hermione awoke the next morning in her school uniform (not an uncommon occurrence due to her proclivity to fall asleep reading). She sat up, stretched, wiggled her toes, and then knocked her forgotten pregnancy books off of her bed onto the floor where they landed with a thud. She quickly jumped out of bed to retrieve them before her roommates discovered them; Parvati and Lavender were still asleep however, to Hermione’s relief. As a precaution, she charmed the books to look like the types that would be boring to her roommates (to most girls their age, in fact) before stowing them away in her bedside table. She then checked the clock set upon the table and checked her planner. The events she’d scribbled into under yesterday’s date jumped out at her, and she shrieked in shock as she read the one she’d forgotten all about after her appointment with Pomfrey: _‘R.O.H.T., 6pm.’_

Hermione gasped and then panicked, starting to run out of the room, intending to run directly to the Room of Hidden Things, before she realized that Draco wouldn’t be there twelve hours after the date was supposed to begin…. _Or would he?_ She’d suspected that Draco sometimes slept in the Room, and her ever-curious nature (and her current hopefulness) made her decide that now would be a great time for her to test out her suspicions. She quickly used the loo and brushed her teeth, but left her hair as-is because, well, no spell was a quick fix for her particular brand of bedhead.

She hustled to the Room, donning her over-sized sweatshirt to cover her belly as she went. Although she wasn’t superstitious person, she crossed her fingers as the door to the Room appeared for her, figuring that she could use any luck from wherever she could get it. She rushed in, calling out Draco’s name, meandering through the stacks of junk to their normal meeting spot. Before she reached it, however, she came to an abrupt halt near a tall cabinet, nearly tripping over a sleeping Draco.

 _He must have been waiting for me all night before falling asleep here_ , she thought and she felt her heart clench in guilt.

Like a magnet drawn to its polar opposite, she was drawn to him, compelled to fall to her knees softly beside him. He was laying on the floor on numerous pillow and cushions and covered in a blanket. He looked peaceful (though not well-rested); Hermione had never seen such an expression on him, and she thought it was beautiful. Normally, when she looked at Draco’s face, she focused on his gorgeous gray eyes, and as those were now hidden from view, she took time to learn the rest of his face. His lips were thinner and their width wider now than when he was awake, as his facial muscles that normally made them taught in his trademarked stoic expression were relaxed. His platinum blonde hair was a mess, falling over his forehead, but she liked it that way. He looked adorable and so much more approachable, and she giggled at the thought of Draco hearing her describer him as such.

Draco seemed so very tense this year that Hermione decided to help him look like this while awake, all of the time. Although he relaxed considerably when they were together in the Room, his demeanor still didn’t come close to the level of peacefulness that Hermione currently saw on his features, and his expression was completely devoid of peace when she saw him in classes.

She shivered in the cold as she’d forgotten her cloak in her haste to get to the Room. Draco looked so warm, and Hermione had the urge to cuddle with him under his blanket, but she decided that she wasn’t ready for that kind of touching yet; Draco probably wasn’t either, she thought, and she suspected that he would not take to it kindly.

(Oh, how naïve Hermione Granger was!)

Not keen to wake him by stirring up his bedding, she looked around for another blanket nearby but ended up transfiguring an old rug into a blanket and another into a pillow, and then she lay down on the floor facing Draco, still watching him peacefully sleep. She didn’t intend on falling asleep; she just wanted to be warm and to admire his looks….and be near him.

She was slightly concerned about how he would react when he awoke and saw her so close, inspecting him, especially after she’d failed to meet him in the Room last night. She didn’t want to hurt him or ruin their relationship. He’d been a gentleman to her so far, but she felt some trepidation thinking about how he may react to her absence last night; she felt fairly confident that no girl had ever stood up Draco Malfoy before last night. She figured he probably thought she didn’t care about him anymore. She figured he’d be angry—his old angry self. She prepared herself for his anger and his disdain that would be all-too evident in his arrogant tone once the ‘old Malfoy’ returned.

She’d not let him off easy, though, she thought. He was used to being a spoiled brat and getting away with doling out sharp tongue-lashings; she knew how to deal with him, but that didn’t mean that she was looking forward to having to do so. She planned what she’d say to him when he did wake up and unleash his temper, and as she did, wrapped up cozily next to him in the Room, she fell asleep.

Hermione awoke to her wand alarm, which was scheduled to sound at 8 am, to the sight of a still-asleep Draco. He’d rolled over to his right side with his back to her now, and his left arm had come out from under his blanket. Hermione noted that Draco hadn’t slept in his long-sleeved dress shirt; he only had on a sleeveless undershirt. She could see the muscles in his back and his upper arm. Despite herself, she sighed at the sight; he was very muscular from Quidditch and he looked very dishy. She inched closer to peek at his front and face until she saw a black mark on his left forearm. Her breath caught in her throat.

 _It can’t be,_ she thought. _It’s not the Dark Mark, it’s not, it’s something else—a different Wizarding tattoo, maybe,_ she tried to convince herself. She couldn’t convince herself, though; there was too much doubt niggling around in her brain. She had to know for sure—she had to see it in its entirety, and because he wasn’t able to see it fully because of the position of Draco’s arm, she gently grabbed Draco’s left wrist and rotated his forearm.

A creepy, black snake curling out and around of an even creepier, black skull stared back at her.

As soon as her eyes had laid eyes on the Mark, Draco was wrenching his arm from her grasp. He turned on her with a vicious look, which she’d seen probably a hundred times during their acquaintance. Hermione’s surprise at being caught trying to see his Mark quickly evolved to fear. She’d prepared herself last night for him being upset with her missing their date but not for the blatant look of fury directed toward her now.

 _Any chance of forgiveness for last night is surely gone now_ , she told herself. She waited for the angry words, her lip trembling though she tried to keep her tears at bay. 

Draco hadn’t expected to see her here, next to him in the morning, and he certainly hadn’t expected her to be looking at his Dark Mark. He’d tried so hard to keep his Mark covered at all times; he’d been diligent about it, even donning black shirts instead of the required white school uniform shirts under his robes as an extra precaution. He’d used Glamour Charms on the Mark daily, too; but they only lasted a few hours, and definitely not all night long.

 _Figures,_ he thought and swore to himself. _The one time I slip up with this damn Mark I get caught, and by HER, no less._ No one at Hogwarts knew of his Mark—not even his goons Crabbe and Goyle nor the other children of Death Eaters—until now.

Neither Hermione nor Draco spoke. Draco’s eyes, initially narrowed and furious, relaxed as he took her in—as he searched her face, expecting to find signs of disgust but seeing none. Still, he braced himself for the surely impending moment that Hermione would run away from him, never wanting to be near him again.

He looked into her eyes, willing her to understand the reason he’d taken the Mark, willing her to know how disgusting it was to him, and willing her to not abandon him—them; that, of course, was not conveyed by his eyes, but the longer he looked at her, the calmer he became.

His eyes, locked onto hers, slowly—reluctantly—took in the rest of her face and body. Her breathing started to slow, he noticed, which gave him a modicum of relief and courage to look back in her eyes; there he saw tears welling up.

 _A surprising reaction to fear_ , he thought. He’d seen her fearful several times (although she was particularly good at hiding it), and he’d seen her angry more times than he could count, and he’d never seen her cry at any of those times.

_Is she not afraid? Or maybe it’s her recent tendency toward crying…._

Almost unconsciously, he quirked his eyebrow at her.

Hermione was looking directly into Draco’s eyes, her inspection intense before she quirked her brow at him. Seeing one another mirroring their own expression broke the tension between them considerably. Hermione, knowing that it was not in Draco’s nature to offer personal information, broke the silence first; she knew how private he was and how her invasion of his privacy was probably a huge point of contention for him at the moment.

“I’m sorry, Draco. I shouldn’t have pried,” she quietly and gently said. “And I’m sorry I missed our date last night. I….I got distracted and I forgot, but not because I wasn’t looking forward to it—because I was….very much.”

Draco searched her eyes before relaxing his elegant-but-masculine brow and nodding. He didn’t know what to say—or what to do. He felt vulnerable and fearful that she was still going to run.

_Why hasn’t she run away?_

Hermione was intuitive and bright enough to realize to not force him, so she continued, her eyes on his as she spoke.

“I won’t tell anyone, Draco. I promise,” she practically whispered before sending her gaze to the transfigured blanket, fiddling with the edge, waiting for him….waiting all day, if that’s what it took. She’d said all she needed to—wanted to—and now, she waited.

 _Waiting for the inevitable_ , she thought.

A long silence followed, before Draco began searching for his discarded clothing and redressing. Hermione’s heart sunk in her chest to her stomach until she feared she’d be sick. He was surely preparing to leave the Room….to leave her; he surely was done with her, today and forever. Though she’d seen a different side to Draco Malfoy recently, he was still Draco Malfoy, after all, she reasoned—Draco Malfoy who didn’t tolerate impertinence or prying.

She began folding her blanket so that she’d have something other than Draco to look at during the harshly worded break-up she expected any second; or something to focus on instead of the back of his retreating form if he wordlessly left her alone. She finished her abnormally slow folding and took a peek at the spot she’d last seen Draco; there were his feet. Draco was standing, looking at her, and extending his right arm to her in an offer to help her up.

Hermione nodded a thank you to him and silently offered a prayer of thanks to God as she stood with Draco’s assistance before she was slowly, ever-so-tentatively out of Draco’s uncertainty, pulled closer to him. Draco’s left arm—the arm marred by the Dark Mark—was tucked behind his back so as to not touch her. He pulled her into an awkward embrace, his head tilted down to rest on hers. Hermione’s left arm hugged him back, and her right arm hung at her side. They remained together like that for a few minutes.

Draco embraced her, worrying that things would never be the same. He feared that pure and perfect Hermione Granger would not look beyond the Mark—and why would she? It represented everything that was against her and everything that she was against in the Wizarding world.

Hermione stood, wondering why Draco was embracing her—and why she was letting him. He was a Death Eater, her enemy. Why would he WANT to hug her if he was her enemy? Her mind was racing until it suddenly halted with the conclusion: he is not acting like her enemy—he isn’t her enemy. He did NOT WANT to be a Death Eater.

The words that would ask for confirmation of her conclusion were on the tip of her tongue, but they wouldn’t be released from her mouth, and at the thought of _why_ , she decided that she didn’t need his words of affirmation. Everything she needed to know was in Draco’s behavior, and it had been for quite some time now.

Hermione reached her right arm across Draco’s body and gripped his left upper arm, gently tugging on it to bring it around to her. Draco tensed and looked at her, surprised. She stilled her movements, but looked up at Draco with pleading eyes. She couldn’t have known it, of course, but her eyes on his like that melted Draco’s defenses, and he conceded his will to her own. Her hand slid down to his forearm until her thumb rested right over the spot where the Mark was located. She further pulled on his arm until she could feel it upon her side and back, knowing that that despicable Mark was touching her. The only difference between this embrace and all of the others she and Draco had shared was the knowledge of the Mark; nothing else felt different. Holding Draco’s arm upon her back, she was telling Draco without having to speak one word that the Mark made him no different to her.

She certainly was not happy about it, and Draco certainly wasn’t foolish enough to believe that she was; to believe so would be misguided. Relief of knowing that she still accepted him despite the Mark, flooded him, even though he could barely believe it to be true. He’d been doubtful of her returning his touch when he’d offered his hand to her and had initiated the embrace, and when she actually returned it—and deepened it even—he was shocked.

 _How can she still accept me, hug me, look at me in the eye after seeing that Mark, knowing full well what it stands for?_ he wondered. _How can she let it touch her?_ The thought disgusted him—though not enough to relinquish his hold on her warm body….on her.

Hermione was still crying soundlessly, tears wetting Draco’s robed chest as she’d buried her head into it. She didn’t even let the fact that she was crying in front of him—again!—bother her. She didn’t care about the tears; she cared about Draco.

 _Why?_ she pondered. _Why would he take the Mark if he didn’t want it? Had he wanted it when he took it? What changed?_

Those questions, she realized, would have to wait for another day, as sounds from their stomachs and the hunger pangs causing them were becoming impossible to ignore, and classes would be starting soon. They both needed showers and fresh clothes as well.

Draco seemed to read Hermione’s mind, and as much as they both wanted to stay and hold one another and tell the other so many things that were on their minds, they released from their embrace and made their way to the door, holding hands as they went.

Draco motioned for Hermione to leave first as he held the door open for her, but before she could slip out, he whispered, “I didn’t want it. I don’t want to be one.” He had his hand on her arm, not letting go until he got confirmation that she’d heard him. She nodded and went on her way, looking back briefly with a solemn smile on her face. It definitely wasn’t her best or biggest smile, but it thrilled Draco nonetheless and gave him a bit of courage to continue to face his demons….to endure the destiny that he despised thrust upon him.

_\----_

That day flew by. All too quickly, it was dinnertime and Hermione’s appointment with Madam Pomfrey thereafter. With the horrible nausea she’d experienced gone now, Hermione was enjoying food again. As she ate, she chanced glances at the Slytherin Table, looking for Draco. She didn’t usually do that, as she didn’t want to get caught, but, after the morning they’d had, she couldn’t NOT look for him. She caught his eye; he’d been looking at her, too. She blushed and looked away quickly.

She ate well, thinking of the babies growing inside of her, completely dependent on her, and said goodbye to her friends at the Table, giving them the excuse of needing to go to the Library, which they readily accepted after rolling their eyes—except for Harry. He had issue with Hermione going alone, of course. Hermione bit her lip, thinking quickly.

“Harry, I would be safest if I could borrow a certain item from you for the walk,” she asked in a lilting tone, raising her eyebrows.

Harry looked at her hard for a few seconds, apparently thinking it over before drawing out the Invisibility Cloak from his rucksack and handing it over. Hermione gave him a brilliant smile and hugged him, hurrying away from the Gryffindor Table.

The brilliant smile and _cuddle_ given to Harry did not go unnoticed by a watchful and pensive Draco as he also headed out of the Great Hall to meet up with her. His long strides allowed him to catch up to Hermione outside of the Hall, where she was standing in the shadows, unfolding the Cloak.

“Hermione!” Draco hissed. Hermione jumped as she turned to face the direction from which her name originated. Seeing Draco, she bit her lip. _No, no, no. He can’t follow me right now!_

Before she could do or say anything, he was gently pulling her into an alcove and out of sight of anyone who also may be finished with their dinners early and heading out from the Great Hall. Hermione meekly protested, but was hushed by Draco pulling her in for a hug. He’d had a horrible day since she’d discovered his secret (well, one of his _many_ secrets), and he needed some reassurance that she still cared for him. Hermione hugged him back with only a slight hesitation for fear of being caught by other students and of Draco realizing that what she carried in her arms was an Invisibility Cloak. Little did she know that Draco not only knew what the cloak was but that he also knew to whom it truly belonged. He marveled at Hermione having in her possession such a rare and invaluable item; it made him wonder how easily Potter lent it out. 

“Hugging a Gryffindor, Draco? What would your Housemates say?” she whispered, chuckling softly.

“Come up with me?” Draco asked, ignoring her joke.

“I….can’t,” she lamely said. He pulled away to look her in the face. His previously mischievous expression was instantly changed into his infamous, utterly-Malfoy expression plus something else she couldn’t determine. He was upset, that was blatant, but there was something else she couldn’t put her finger on.

_Is he_ _thinking that I’m rejecting him?_

He was. _And being replaced by Potter, of all wizards_.

“Draco, it’s not what you think—I’m not trying to avoid you—I just have to go see Madam Pomfrey,” she blurted out. He looked skeptical.

“Are you ill?” he asked tightly.

“No, not per say…I just…” She hated to use this excuse, but in her experience, it worked every time. “I just have….female problems,” she whispered.

 _Well, it is true_ _if the female problem is ‘being pregnant_ ,’ she reasoned pragmatically as she shifted on her feet, feeling guilty for lying nonetheless.

Draco studied her face. Hermione frowned in response; he wasn’t as easy to placate as Ron and Harry, who ran at even a hint of ‘female problems.’

_He probably doesn’t believe that; he’s too smart._

“Would you escort me there?” she asked in a whisper. “And you wouldn’t need to wait there for me—you—you can go on up to the Room, and I’ll join you when I’m done,” she added quickly (and hopefully).

Draco nodded and peeked out from their hidey-hole to look for anyone who could spot them while Hermione stuffed the Cloak in her bag. The two of them walked to the Wing (not touching, of course—that was too risky), deciding to use the pretense that they were simply on patrol should their proximity to one another be questioned.

Upon entering the Wing, the doors shut tightly behind them, Hermione turned sharply to Draco and whispered, “See you in the Room.”

Draco didn’t budge. Hermione began to sweat, and raised her brow at him.

  
“I’ll wait here,” he said unaffectedly, shrugging. “The Wing is large, so no need to fear that I’ll hear you talking with Pomfrey,” Draco said, already feigning interest in his fingernails and leaning against the wall.

Hermione was about to argue, but, much to her dismay, she could tell by his set jaw that he was unyielding on his decision.

_Think, Hermione, think!_

But before she could think, Madam Pomfrey’s voice rang out, “Oh, Miss Granger, good evening. Let’s—oh!” She looked beyond Hermione at Draco and then back to Hermione, her brows raised.

 _Oh, if only I could speak telepathically!_ Hermione mused, as she hoped that the Healer would not say anything personal about her in front of Draco.

“Will Mr. Malfoy be joining us?” the Madam asked, clearly surprised.

 _Shut it!_ Hermione wanted to shout. _She must think he’s the father, or something._

“Oh, no, Madam, he was kind enough to escort me here, but he will not be joining us. Would you mind if we spoke in your office?” Hermione asked with her back to Draco while she made a wide-eyed face at Pomfrey.

The Healer understood the non-verbal message and nodded imperceptibly at Hermione, her face impassive. “Right this way, Miss Granger. Mr. Malfoy, please wait for Miss Granger right there,” Pomfrey instructed as she pointed to a chair near the Wing doors.

Hermione heard a scoff emitted from Draco’s throat as she followed Pomfrey to her office. Once inside, door closed, Pomfrey placed a silencing charm on the room and turned to Hermione with an apologetic expression.

“He doesn’t know you’re pregnant, then?” she asked.

“No,” Hermione replied. “Dumbledore instructed me not to tell anyone except Harry, so only Harry knows.”

“Mr. Potter knows, and yet Mr. Malfoy escorted you here tonight?” the older witch asked with care.

Hermione nodded her head lamely with downcast eyes at this and mumbled, “Harry had Quidditch, and Drac—Malfoy, um….he just, well, tagged along.”

Pomfrey was silent for a few moments.

“Miss Granger….I’m not judging, dear, but I wonder….Is either young man the babies’ father?” Pomfrey asked gently.

Hermione flushed. Madam Pomfrey had asked her who had raped her when Hermione had initially come to the Wing in December, but Hermione had refused to answer, denying that she had been raped at all. Back then, right after the event, it hadn’t occurred to her that it was rape. The fact that she’d willingly participated (even though her participation was potion-induced) combined with her being confused from a Muggle date-rape drug (although she’d had no idea that she’d been given one at the time) had made her deny that it had been rape. After a few weeks, she’d thought in retrospect that maybe she had been in a bit of denial that day in the Hospital Wing.

Reality was that she _had_ been raped, and that was enough to make her never want to dwell on whom the father of the babies may be; during the times when she did think about their conception, though, she’d think of Draco. How could she not? His face and body were what she’d seen when she and her unknown attacker had committed the act and what she remembered, even if it hadn’t _truly_ been Draco, body and soul. And, given the past couple of weeks, it would make sense ( _that is, IF ANY of this really made sense_ ) if the father were Draco; he was her boyfriend, if not in name then in practice. Draco was the only guy she had feelings for, even if those feelings didn’t include the urge to ‘jump his bones.’ But she knew that she couldn’t really think of Draco as the father, no matter how much it ‘made sense’ or how much she fantasized about it. Hermione could not indulge herself with the dream that she and her boyfriend were having a baby—two!—like a normal couple; she was pregnant with some _stranger’s_ babies for crying out loud! Draco could not share in her pregnancy. Harry, while dependable and loyal, had his own life and problems and a girl of his own (sort of), and Hermione couldn’t ask him to take on the responsibility of ‘playing house’ with her.

Hermione shook her head and grabbed at her hair by the roots in frustration. “This is so messed up!” she cried out.

Madam Pomfrey hugged her, prying Hermione’s fingers from her hair and then stroking the wild curls. “Shh, shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. You don’t have to tell me, Hermione, but it might make all of this a bit less of a burden to bear if you did.”

Hermione rested in Pomfrey’s embrace, mulling over what she’d told her. She pulled away, after making her decision, wiping her tears on the tissue the Madam handed her. She felt like a fool for having been tricked into sex with a stranger in the first place and, secondly, for having to admit to it, but she decided to confide in the Madam. Pomfrey was, after all, her Healer and the person who would be delivering the babies come September.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you, Madam Pomfrey?” Hermione asked.

“No, dear. I’m bound to confidentiality,” Pomfrey said firmly. Hermione nodded.

“I was tricked into intercourse, Madam Pomfrey. The guy who tricked me had disguised himself and then forced a love potion on me, and you remember the Muggle medicine that was in my system, too—the one that made me confused and disoriented?”

Madam Pomfrey nodded, her face sympathetic.

“Well, Harry saw that Draco Malfoy was in the Library, where I was supposed to be meeting him….but the guy who tricked me in the Room of Requirement looked like Draco, too.”

Madam Pomfrey looked shocked and sick for a minute before she asked Hermione to expound.

“We—Harry and I—believe it must have been Polyjuice Potion that was used to make my attacker look just like Draco.”

“But perhaps Draco was in the Room and the Polyjuiced Draco was in the Library, Hermione?” Pomfrey asked, almost frantically, feeling that the poor girl could still be being deceived—and potentially harmed—by the boy who stood in just the other room.

Hermione nodded; she understood that this was the logical deduction when one didn’t know about the Marauders’ Map being able to correctly identify the Draco in the Library as the real Draco.

“Harry is certain that the real Draco was in the Library, Madam, and I can’t tell you how he knows it, but I know how he knows and I trust him implicitly,” Hermione replied confidently and respectfully.

“Hermione, do you or Mr. Potter have any idea who actually raped you?” she asked.

“Not the slightest,” Hermione replied with a sigh.

The Madam pondered this for a few minutes, before replying gently.

“Is Mr. Malfoy….Draco….just a friend, Hermione, or something more?”

Hermione blushed, a bit taken aback. The professors and staff of Hogwarts never bothered themselves with the personal lives of the students to this degree.

“He’s….well, he’s my boyfriend, I suppose….We just recently got together that way—not _that_ way—not meaning _intercourse,_ I mean! I just mean a….barely _more-than-friends_ way. Please don’t tell anyone, Madam Pomfrey! It wouldn’t be good for him or for me if people find out,” Hermione supplied and petitioned, completely embarrassed by the thought that for a girl who’d had sex before and was pregnant, she was so shy about her budding romance.

Madam Pomfrey was again silent for a minute.

“I will keep that secret, Hermione. Now, let’s discuss what you came here to discuss so that you can get back to Mr. Malfoy.”

Hermione let out an internal sigh of relief as Pomfrey began to reiterate facts about her twin pregnancy that Hermione had missed the Madam explain to her last night due to her shock over learning she was going to having two babies.

Madam Pomfrey asked Hermione to give her a detailed medical history about herself and her parents. Hermione relayed that she was an only child and that, due to a complication at her birth, her mum had to have a hysterectomy at that time. She mentioned that twins didn’t run in her family that she knew of, at least.

Hermione was curious as to why she was having twins; she had read that twins are rare for young mothers. Madam Pomfrey explained that she could tell from the magical equivalent to a Muggle Ultrasound that each baby had come from its own egg, meaning that Hermione’s ovaries had released more than one egg at a time (which is not usual) because of a Charm she had placed on Hermione last year when Dumbledore first told her of her Prophecy. The Charm’s purpose was to keep Hermione in a state of constant fertility, so that she would conceive as soon as possible.

Hermione burned with fury at this, but managed to keep from lashing out.

_What good would it do, now? What’s done is done._

Madam Pomfrey informed Hermione that the twins would be fraternal twins, not identical, and that they could be the same gender or opposite genders, but that it was too early to tell.

The stress brought on by the idea of Hermione having two babies growing inside of her was starting to wear on her, so she interrupted Pomfrey’s extensive lecture (which, normally, she would have thoroughly enjoyed) on twins and asked Pomfrey for her aid in finding adoptive parents for the babies.

At either the abrupt change in topic or at the request itself, Pomfrey looked surprised, Hermione thought. The matronly, professional Healer, however, agreed to help Hermione in that venture. Hermione was relieved; however, she could tell that although Pomfrey was trying to remain stoic, she didn’t appear to be happy to help Hermione adopt the twins out, which was puzzling to her (and slightly disconcerting, as well).

A return appointment was made for the next month. Before Hermione could excuse herself from the office, the Madam asked her, “How do you suppose that your attacker got a hair from Mr. Malfoy?”

Hermione had, during Christmas Holiday, obsessed over this question. Neither she nor Harry had been able to figure it out. If Draco had been complicit in Hermione’s rape, he would have freely given his hair to the rapist. Looking back on everything that had happened between her and Draco since her rape, she couldn’t believe that he was complicit. If he had not been complicit, then someone would have had to steal his hair, and that would have been easily accomplished by one of his fellow Slytherins, especially one of his roommates. Hermione shuddered at the thought that it could have been Crabbe or Goyle who stole the hair and raped her using it.

_These twins wouldn’t have much in the way of brains, poor things._

So the only answer she could supply was, “I don’t know, Madam.”

“Hermione, do you think it possible that Mr. Malfoy willingly gave his hair to the perpetrator of your rape?” Pomfrey bluntly asked.

Hermione felt as if she should say ‘yes, it’s possible,’ as she couldn’t be certain that Draco hadn’t supplied his hair for her rapist’s nefarious purpose. But, did she believe that was likely? Hermione answered the Healer with conviction. “No; I don’t think it’s possible.”

The Madam nodded, although her face belied her gesture of acceptance of Hermione’s assertion.

Irritated with the Madam’s question (and her subsequent response) and eager to be on her way to be alone with Draco, Hermione rapidly stood. Immediate lightheadedness and nausea assailed her before things went dark.

_\----_

When Draco saw the levitating form of Hermione glide out of Madam Pomfrey’s office and into a bed near said office, he rushed down the aisle in the middle of the Wing to Hermione’s side. Pomfrey couldn’t help but notice his reaction and the way he held her hand surreptitiously. He looked up to Pomfrey for an explanation.

“She fainted, Mr. Malfoy. She needs fluids, which I’ll accomplish with a Hydration Charm, and rest. I will need you to remain quiet, if you choose to stay until curfew—but no later, Mr. Malfoy,” the Healer sternly said.

Nodding absently, Draco turned his attention back to Hermione as Pomfrey did the same. She performed diagnostic spells, checking Hermione’s vital signs and assessing the heart rates of the babies and the blood flow to their placentas, unbeknownst to Draco.

The Healer pulled privacy curtains all around Hermione’s bed and returned to her office, shutting the door. She had surreptitiously placed a one-way Transparency Charm on the curtain closest to her office window so that she could keep her eyes on her patient—and said patient’s boyfriend.

 _The young man is a Malfoy, after all_ , thought the Healer, as Poppy Pomfrey (like many people) did not trust the Malfoys.

In addition, she was having a difficult time reconciling all she’d observed about the boy in the past five years with the young man she had observed in the past five minutes. He’d always been egotistical, vulgar, and supercilious; today he was concerned for the well being of another person—a Muggleborn, even!—polite, and humble, if her observations correct. And Pomfrey knew Hermione’s character fairly well, and she felt it odd that Hermione and Draco would be friendly, let alone fancy one another.

The lights were low in the Wing, but there was a window above the bed that Hermione lay on, and the moonlight was coursing in through it, illuminating Hermione’s upper half and the form of her seated visitor. Draco’s hair seemed to glow in the soft light, making him appear almost angelic.

 _Quite the contrast to the Malfoy character_ , thought Pomfrey.

She watched as Draco murmured unheard words to the sleeping Hermione while stroking her hand before reaching into his robes. Pomfrey’s eyes widened. Pulling out her wand, she banished the glass separating her from her patient in case she needed to send a hex Malfoy’s way.

A box, not a wand, was the object that Draco pulled out of his robe, however, so Pomfrey replaced the glass and lowered her wand. Draco opened the box took out a rope—a rope with something she couldn’t determine on it. Pomfrey plastered herself against the glass to afford herself a better view, her wand still at the ready. She then saw that what Draco actually held in his hands was a thin, red velvet ribbon and a smooth-looking stone in a gold setting, which was anchored to the ribbon on both sides. Draco was again murmuring to Hermione, who was still asleep, but Pomfrey couldn’t hear a thing. She still felt uneasy about what the young Malfoy was up to, so she used an Aberi Tacite spell to open her office door silently and snuck out, her wand at the ready, to hear and see what Draco would do next.

“I got this for your half-birthday—peculiar Muggle construct, that is,” he said, in a faux-haughty tone with a tiny smile as he looked at Hermione. “The old jeweler—a git, by the way—in Hogsmeade said that no witch wants such an ugly stone these days and that I should choose aquamarine, which is also a birthstone for March,” Draco said solemnly. “However, I thought that this—being green and red—was more significant to the two of us than the traditional March birthstone. I told him to bugger off—I can say that now because you’re asleep,” Pomfrey heard the boy say with a mischievous smile. He continued. “I then told him to set this one in a gold setting—as much as it bloody miffed me to choose gold over silver,” he finished, with a look of disgust on his face.

Pomfrey watched closely, still with wide eyes, as Draco gently slid one end of the ribbon under Hermione’s neck, being careful of her bushy hair, before tying the ends together and sliding the tie to the back of Hermione’s neck (again gently) so that the Bloodstone pendant lay in the center of her neck. Draco sat down again, but this time he sat on the edge of Hermione’s bed, holding her right hand in his right hand. Their clasped hands rested on his knee as he stroked her hand with his thumb. Pomfrey’s mouth was agape as she watched; it remained so as Draco heaved a large sigh before continuing.

“It’s called Bloodstone because of the red spots interspersed in the green that makes up the majority of the stone’s composition,” Pomfrey heard the boy explain quietly to his unconscious sweetheart.

“Bloodstone, Hermione, because….your blood, my blood….they’re….irrelevant,” Draco said and then was silent for a few minutes. “Maybe someday I’ll have enough bloody courage like you Gryffindors to say this when you can actually hear me….” he finished as he made a throaty sound, like he was disgusted.

Pomfrey watched, listened, and waited a few moments more before Draco stood, still stroking Hermione’s hand, and said, “I have to go, Hermione. I’d stay, but….”

In a firm voice, which he hadn’t used all night, he added, “I have something to do for my mother.” He sighed. Then, slowly, he leaned down to Hermione, and Pomfrey was sure he was going to kiss her. Instead, Draco reached out to gently twine a strand of her long, curly hair around his finger and murmured, “Sweet dreams, Mione.”

Reluctantly, he drew his hand away from Hermione’s locks and turned before slipping out of the partition and striding down the aisle and out of the Wing.

 _Hmm….Well, the boy clearly fancies her,_ thought Pomfrey, brows up to her hairline—before sighing and frowning.

\---- 

-March 21, 1997

The sun had barely risen when Hermione woke. She stretched and realized she wasn’t in her pajamas.

 _I’ve really got to stop wearing my clothes to bed_ , she thought. Remembering why she was still in her uniform, she forced herself into a more coherent state and looked around her.

 _The Hospital Wing, meeting with Pomfrey, Draco was here_ … And at that she recalled the past evening’s events. She happily fingered the delicate velvet ribbon chocker necklace she was wearing, letting her fingers linger on the Bloodstone.

Last night, she recalled, she’d almost given herself away when she heard Draco explaining his gift, but she’d managed to contain her surprise and glee until she was sure he’d left the Wing. Her composed, feigned-unconscious expression had turned into a huge smile, and her cool hands had covered her cheeks, hot from her body’s reaction to the attention—physical and emotional—that Draco had just given to her. Butterflies had been flying like mad inside of her stomach, and her heart had raced in excitement.

This morning she still couldn’t believe Draco had given her anything—let alone something so meaningful—or that he had confessed something so personal to her. He’d stroked her hand and hair so tenderly, too. And what he’d said before leaving! He’d given her a nickname! Calling each other by their first names had been significant (and quite the feat), but now—now he had an even more significant name for her.

 _He must have remembered Mum calling her ‘Mione’ on Holiday_ , Hermione deduced. Only her mum had ever called her ‘Mione.’ Harry and Ron didn’t even have a term of endearment for her—their best friend! It made Hermione feel extremely…. _special_ …. _wanted_. She’d let out a (very un-Hermione) little squeal of delight thinking about it and had fallen asleep, grinning like Gilderoy Lockhart at a photo shoot as she lay in her tiny hospital bed.

_\----_

Hermione woke hungry, and she couldn’t wait to be assessed by Madam Pomfrey and released so that she could go eat and seek out Draco to thank him for his gift—but first, she realized, she needed to decide if she would come clean about having heard him last night or feign ignorance, forcing him to repeat his declaration. She smirked a very Draco-esque smirk at that, and her butterflies returned as she thought about Draco’s words all over again.

\---- 

Draco very frequently skived off classes, but he was present for every one the day after Hermione’s fainting episode in the Hospital Wing. He and Hermione had the same class schedule on Fridays, and if it weren’t for that, he wouldn’t have bothered with classes. Although he was exhausted from being up all night working on his task of fixing—or, rather, _attempting_ to fix—the cabinet, the anticipation of seeing her wearing his gift had given him a second wind.

By his first lesson of the day (Potions), the anticipation was near killing him, so to speak. He hadn’t been able to see the choker on her neck at breakfast because she’d been surrounded by Gryffindors and ‘Looney’ Lovegood, who were all vying for her attention.

_Probably due to her absence in Gryffindor Tower last night._

Potter in particular, Draco had noticed with disdain, was especially close to Hermione; he had hovered over her like she was a newborn baby, incapable of doing anything for herself and needing constant supervision.

Draco wanted to throw a Bludger at him.

In preparation for brewing in Potions, Hermione had pulled up her wild curls so as to avoid the humidity causing her hair to swell to the size of a Hippogriff (which it invariably did if her hair was left wild and free). Therefore, when Draco entered the classroom, he saw the ribbon of the choker tied around Hermione’s slim, graceful neck. He was almost giddy as he passed Hermione’s worktable and the empty one in front of it before he turned to face her as he put his rucksack down.

She didn’t look at him; she was looking at something beyond him, to the side of him, with the tiniest smile on her lips. They had to keep up appearances, especially as Harry was sitting next to Hermione. Although her smile was almost imperceptible, the light in Hermione’s eyes as she lightly touched the choker’s stone was blatant, and as she touched it, she dragged her eyes to him for one millisecond before dropping her gaze to her book on her table.

In that millisecond, as if he expected the tiny opportunity, Draco gave a small nod to acknowledge that he saw it and as a silent ‘you’re welcome’ to answer Hermione’s silent ‘thank you.’ He sat down, trying to force the smile, tiny though it was, from his face.

After seeing Hermione wearing it, he was now anxious to know what she thought of it. Obviously she’d deduced it was from him, and obviously she didn’t find it repulsive, but he was on pins and needles to know what her opinions of it were. Unfortunately, as he was in a double-lecture, he was going to have to wait two hours until he had even a possibility of speaking to her.

As it turned out, Draco didn’t have to wait two hours to get her alone; he had to wait the whole day. Harry was sticking to Hermione like Flobberworm mucus, much as he had at the start of the term. He and Hermione could manage eye contact for only a few moments before they’d need to keep up the pretense of being enemies, both sending a frown or haughty look at the other infrequently.

Draco’s only recourse was to send a message through their journals, and as soon as he returned to his dorm to fetch his journal, he saw the glow emanating from it.

_‘Can we meet tonight in the usual spot? I’ve found a way to get away from H.P.’_

Draco quickly replied.

‘ _Go there as soon as you can,’_ he wrote before changing clothes, cleaning his teeth (with magic— _so much better than the Muggle way,_ he thought), and applying cologne. _Time for this date, finally,_ he thought before heading to the kitchen before the Room.

When Draco arrived in the room, he heard music from the piano as he meandered through the stacks and stacks of abandoned items. He found Hermione sitting at the piano and concentrating hard on playing a piece that they had attempted as a duet. Immediately, he noticed that her hair looked less frizzy. The brown curls looked uncharacteristically soft, and he couldn’t wait to find out if they indeed were. Quietly, he strode up to stand behind her before gently lifting a section of hair and combing through it with his fingers; he was pleased to note that he had right about her hair’s softness as he also enjoyed the wafting scent of coconut fill his nostrils.

Startled by the touch, Hermione gasped as she turned to face him, one hand on her heart and one reaching for her wand.

Draco chuckled and said, “I’m sorry. It just looked so….tempting,” and he reached out to grab another handful, combing through it again gently before turning his attention to her throat. She was wearing the choker, and as she saw his eyes on it, she involuntarily reached up to finger it.

“It suits you, I think,” Draco asked nervously, as he twirled a finger around a long curl and reached out to touch the choker, too. Hermione’s skin tingled where it made contact with Draco’s; the feeling was completely new to her but definitely welcome. She nodded and smiled.

“I love it. It’s pretty but not gaudy; it’s just my style,” she said quietly and then added, “It’s a unique stone.”

He nodded, his face only slightly relaying his pleasure at her words. “It’s a Bloodstone, the traditional birthstone for March—you know, the month of your ‘half-birthday’,” he said with an eye roll and a smile as he mentioned the Muggle construct.

“This was quite thoughtful of you—and I shouldn’t accept it—but I love wearing it already. Thank you, Draco,” she said sincerely, reaching for his hand.

Draco beamed at her words; it pleased him that she loved it just as he had planned and hoped. Initially, he had been a bit apprehensive about giving her jewelry, the gift of jewelry having romantic implications, and all, but seeing it on her now—seeing her wearing something he gave her—he knew he’d chosen well. There was something about seeing his gift on her body that made him feel pleased, proud, and a bit possessive of her; he liked that.

Plus, this necklace was not just a gift for Hermione—it was a gift to him, too. Draco, being a selfish person by nature (and nurture), couldn’t help but make the necklace serve a purpose beyond it being a gift for her.

Draco relinquished her curly locks and pulled her up with his hand that was clasped with hers to assist her off of the piano stool. He led Hermione to where he’d placed her other present. Three times now, he’d arranged this present; he’d eaten the first two presents when Hermione hadn’t shown up. Tonight, he was anxious for Hermione to see what he’d asked the kitchen elves to make for her.

“Boston Cream pie?” she exclaimed when she saw it. “That’s my favorite. Did you know, that?” Hermione asked, astonished.

He gave her an arrogant expression before telling her that on the evening he’d crashed her last dinner with parents on holiday, when her mother had made all of her favorite foods, they’d eaten Boston Cream Pie.

Hermione couldn’t believe his thoughtfulness. She thanked him and hugged him quickly before pulling him down to the floor where she brought the dessert and a fork. She pulled her wand out and transfigured a random piece of junk into another fork for Draco, instructing him to help her eat it.

He laughed, saying, “You’re going to share you birthday dessert?”

Hermione grinned and replied, “It’s only my half-birthday, so I can only eat half of this.” Draco chuckled and Hermione winked at him as she dug into the dessert. They both quickly devoured it, both wishing there were more.

Hermione sat hoping that Draco would repeat his confession about blood from last night. She didn’t _need_ to hear it again—hearing it again wouldn’t make the first confession any more valid—but, oh, she did very much _want_ to hear it again.

Instead, she heard Draco telling her it was time for a duet. After a small protest on her part, she and Draco played the piece, Hermione playing better after practicing earlier. Then Draco announced it was time to dance. Hermione scoffed good-naturedly. 

“Dance? With no music?” Hermione asked incredulously. Draco just raised his brows and performed a spell that made his wand emit the sound of the song they had just played together.

“How….what spell is that?” she asked him.

He smiled, proudly. “It’s two charms, actually: the first records a song and the second replays it. I was frustrated with not being able to listen to Muggle music at the Manor—my home, that is—so I created the charm to record songs in the Muggle music stores and replay it later.”

Hermione was stunned. “Draco, that’s brilliant!”

Draco nodded happily, smugly, and pulled Hermione into him for a dance—a dance that was a tighter embrace than any they’d had. Both of Draco’s arms were wrapped around Hermione, clutching her to him tightly as she mimicked the action.

“I don’t understand why you’re so surprised, Hermione. You know I’m as bright as you are….or brighter,” he said in a teasing tone, jerking his head back to flip the hair out of his eyes as he looked down at her, and flashing her a smile.

 _Oh, how I love that smile!_ Hermione thought.

Hermione nodded and smiled back. “You really are,” she said earnestly before pressing herself into his warm, strong body once more. Then, as if burned, Hermione abruptly pulled away from being held tight against Draco’s body, afraid that he would feel her baby bump. She couldn’t let that happen!

Her movement startled Draco, whose expression quickly became one of confusion; Hermione could also see hurt in his eyes.

 _Where is the ever-confident Draco Malfoy?_ she wondered.

He’d never shown hurt ( _real_ hurt, not like the hurt he’d feigned after being scratched by Buckbeak in third year) until recently—yesterday morning, as a matter of fact, and now.

_Why is he so vulnerable? Because of the Mark?_

Realizing that an explanation was in order, and wanting to reassure him that his Mark touching her didn’t affect her in the least, she made up an excuse while clinging to his left arm with her right arm. 

“I’m sorry, Draco. I feel a bit dizzy again. Can we sit, please?” she lied, avoiding Draco’s eyes with her own. She believed in telling the truth and being brave, and right now she was doing the opposite of both of those things.

 _I am a horrible human being_ , she bemoaned.

Draco was chivalrous and assisted her to sit down. He arranged his pillows from his sleep last night and hers from her nap that morning for their current comfort. Hermione reclined on the plush pillows, keeping up the façade of being dizzy, and Draco didn’t hesitate to stretch out on the pillows to her right side, keeping a proper distance between them. Hermione smiled in gratitude and looped her right arm under his left, covering his revolting Mark with her tiny hand.

“Hermione….are you ill?” he asked in a considerate tone, but frowning. “You’ve been sick a lot this term—vomiting, fainting, crying….ending up in the Hospital Wing a lot….”

 _Oh, he remembers me vomiting!?_ She was beyond embarrassed, and her heart began racing in her chest. 

_And why did I have to fake illness!?_

Hermione, you are such a dolt!

_What in the world should I say?_

“Stress from lessons and revision, I suppose,” she said, waving it off, looking into her lap, and telling herself that her excuse was partly true, at least, to assuage the guilt she felt for lying to him. She then deflected quickly.

“Draco, I’m having trouble sneaking out without Harry. I only made it here tonight because he had Quidditch practice and because I threatened Neville not to escort me in Harry’s place. Harry’s just very….”

“Possessive? Neurotic?” Draco interjected.

“Protective,” Hermione supplied sternly, but then gave a laugh. “I guess he’s a bit those things, too, but he just trying to protect me from getting hurt again,” and she paled at the realization that she’d unthinkingly said ‘again.’

_Pregnancy brain. It IS real!_

Draco raised his eyebrow. “Ah, so you’re ready to tell me what happened before Christmas Holiday, then?”

Draco thought back to _that day_ ; he’d known right away when he’d seen her in that corridor with Potter near the Room of Requirement that something was amiss. It was obvious (even to someone who hadn’t observed her intently over the past five years like Draco had) that she wasn’t in her right mind. Besides that, she never would have left her wand (which he had found and taken to the Hospital Wing later) in the Room otherwise.

He’d seen further proof the next day on the train when he’d interrupted Hermione and Potter. Potter had obviously been crying ( _what a_ _Nancy_ ), and although Hermione had not looked at him, he’d heard her sniffle, and he’d deduced that Hermione had been crying, too. Girls cried all of the time, from what Draco had learned over the years living at Hogwarts, so Hermione crying wasn’t much of a surprise; but a tearful Potter, coupled with what Draco had witnessed the previous evening, had put him on high alert.

Draco had thought about what he’d witnessed in Hermione’s compartment for the rest of that trip back to London. He had first attributed the crying to some love triangle between Hermione, Potter, and The Weasel.

 _Granger choosing The Weasel over The Chosen One could make Potter cry,_ he’d thought. _That would be enough to make any bloke cry_.

However, The Weasel was with the Brown bint, so that couldn’t be it. A love triangle between Hermione, The Weasel, and Brown would be more likely; Draco had noticed how the blond and the redhead being a couple—snogging all over Hogwarts—had upset Hermione.

 _But,_ he’d thought, _that wouldn’t make Potter cry._

 _No, whatever had occurred had been something entirely different_ , he’d decided. He’d tensed up just thinking about the possibilities; _If it is the one thing that was not supposed to happen to Hermione, then I’m going to be in one hell of a bloody sticky wicket,_ he had lamented.

But now, he waited….waited to find out if Hermione trusted him. He tried hard to be patient, but patience was never a virtue of his.

Meanwhile, Hermione turned her head to her left side away from him to hide her chagrin.

 _So foolish, Hermione, so foolish! To say something like that and not expect Draco Malfoy of all people to jump on it?_ She groaned internally and bit her lip.

“Hermione….it would mean a lot to me if you’d tell me,” Draco said quietly, his pleading words making him feel desperate, pathetic, and whiney despite his serious tone.

Hermione turned to look at him; Draco’s beautiful grey eyes were pleading as much as his words had, and she felt powerless to lie. She inhaled slowly, attempting to temper her nerves and praying for the right words. She didn’t want to say too much; she couldn’t let anything that could have dire consequences slip. She trusted Draco, but only up to the point where she could tell him that she was pregnant.

“When you saw Harry and me so upset in the train compartment, it was because someone….hurt me the day before when I was supposed to be meeting you in the library. That’s why I didn’t show up to help you with your report.” She looked at him for a response, and she got one: two raised eyebrows, two cold, grey eyes, and a hard-set jaw.

“What do you mean _hurt_ , Hermione?” he asked in a clipped tone.

She closed her eyes—as if not seeing him would make what she had to say any easier.

_And you were sorted into Gryffindor!_

“Well, he….” She inhaled deeply and tried again. “He…. _attacked_ me.”

Opening her eyes, she deduced from Draco’s expression that he wanted more details. She raised her eyebrows in an attempt to convey her meaning without having to say it.

Draco just scowled at her, wanting a confirmation of what he had already surmised had occurred. Actually, it was a denial that he was truly hoping for. What he surmised had happened to her was disgusting to him, and he felt like he had to know for sure; if he were wrong, he needed to know for his own sanity, and if he were right, he needed to kill someone.

“What do you mean when you say he _attacked_ you, Hermione? I need to know,” he asked, trying to remain calm so as not to scare Hermione.

She nodded, indicating that she knew she needed to be specific and that she understood his need to know. Though she didn’t want to have to say it out loud, she was intelligent enough to know that ambiguity could be harmful if the wrong inferences would be made. She figured that he had already surmised the truth, but it just wouldn’t be right to leave him wondering, guessing, and obsessing over what he didn’t know for fact.

Grabbing his left hand, she squeezed it hard, as if imparting to herself the strength to say the words from the strength with which she was using to hold onto his hand.

Draco allowed her to grip his hand like she was holding on for her life, although she was crushing his fingers together quite uncomfortably. He was tense; every cell in his body seemed to be on edge.

She found his eyes, which were looking desperately at her own. “Rape,” she whispered, her mouth going dry, making her voice raspy.

That which Draco had feared since seeing Hermione dazed and confused and disheveled in the corridor….that which he had been trying to prevent by monopolizing her free time and her holiday and by manipulating her patrol schedule….that which he had been trying to prevent by spreading the rumor that The Weasel had forbade all guys from dating her….that which he had been trying to prevent by inventing the false rumor of the bet in hopes of her refusing male company….that which he had been trying to prevent by using the journal to gain her affection and trust….had happened. It was all for not. Draco paled—even more than he usually was, that is.

Seeing his pallor, Hermione worried and blurted,“But I was foolish and I—”

But Draco cut her off and sat up, wrenching his arm from her hand in the process and resting his weight on it. He was concerned about the predicament he was in, but his trepidation about that didn’t even begin to compare to the fury he felt about Hermione being raped. He may be a lot of despicable things, but a man who condoned rape was not one of them.

“Who? WHO, Hermione?” he yelled, his hands making fists. Hermione was so startled that she recoiled where she lay on the pillows. 

She cried out, “I don’t know! He disguised himself—using Polyjuice Potion, we think—Harry, me, and Madam Pomfrey.”

She sat up opposite a fuming Draco as he stared at her. “Pomfrey said I’d been given a few potions, actually, so he could, uh….have an easier go of it.”

Very deliberately, very carefully, she chose her words, as to not give too much away for her own self-preservation. She did want to indicate that she had been not in her right mind, but she did not want to reveal that she’d thoroughly enjoy the sex with the unknown guy who had raped her—even if it had been due to the Love Potion only. She didn’t want Draco to think of her as some slag; she had lost her virginity (and had become pregnant) through no fault of her own—she was no slag!

Draco looked surprised, now, in addition to angry. “How do you know the vile bastard was disguised, Hermione?” he questioned, not at all aware that he’d used a foul word in front of her, which he always tried hard not to do. “How do you know that?” he demanded.

Hermione hesitated; to answer that truthfully, she’d have to tell Draco about Harry’s Map. That would be like betraying Harry, which she would not and could not do.

“Harry…” she began as Draco grimaced at his name. “Harry saw the person—the same person whom I thought I was with—in another part of the castle…at the same time.”

Draco began to protest that reasoning immediately, so Hermione continued.

“We just….KNOW—and I can’t tell you how we know, Draco, I-I just can’t! I’m sorry! We know that Polyjuiced person, and not the real person, was in the Room with me.”

Initially, Draco thought that she was lying about not truly knowing the identity of her rapist and that Polyjuice had been used. He was very good at detecting lies (especially with Hermione, who wore her heart on her sleeve and her emotions all over her face), and so upon a second appraisal of her expression, he saw that she wasn’t lying.

He knew that it was completely possible: IF the perpetrator (or accomplices to his _filthy misdeeds_ ) knew how to brew Polyjuice (which is extremely difficult to brew, maybe even for a Seventh Year), or IF the perpetrator knew (as Draco did) that Professor Slughorn had stored some Polyjuice in his locked potions cupboard. Draco also knew (from his studies, of course, but more from personal experience) that once the Polyjuice was brewed, completing the Potion was simply a matter of adding in the final ingredient: a single strand of human hair or toenail clippings, even. 

_Whose….body part was used?_ Draco wondered.

Hermione knew what was going through Draco’s thoughts. She knew what Draco’s next question would be, and she was dreading it with every fiber of her being—and every fiber of the babies’ beings for that matter! She hid her face in her hands, waiting.

“Who did the filthy bastard look like, Hermione?” Draco asked, again with clenched teeth, schooling his features and tempering his tone so he didn’t scare her. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her.

“He….it….,” she tried to speak, through her hands, but the words wouldn’t come; she didn’t know what to say.

_Will he chuck me? Will he try to avenge me—I know Harry is, but he’s a Gryffindor—do Slytherins do that? Should I tell him the truth or should I lie?_

“Come here,” he commanded tenderly as he separated his legs, making room for her in between them and patting the floor where he meant for her to place her bum.

She looked up, looked at his arms reaching for her and then at his face. Displaying something akin to sympathy, his face showed no more anger, and so she was not afraid to do as he had asked. She scooted over in between his legs and pressed her back against his warm, broad chest, turning her chin toward her shoulder and nuzzling her head in his neck, reveling in his warmth and the enticing scent of his cologne.

Draco wrapped his arms around her arms, stroking them both slowly with the pads of his thumbs. It had a very nice, calming effect on the two of them, and they both sat like this for some time. Draco wanted nothing more at that moment than to lift Hermione’s face up to his and to kiss her—thoroughly. Hermione, feeling vulnerable and conflicted, simply wanted to stay as they were and to forget her problems and the world around them.

“Tell me, Hermione. I know that if that foul, bloody, bastard really used Polyjuice, like you surmise he did, then the face you saw when—during….it….isn’t really to blame. I simply want to know because it may be important.”

Hermione let out a tiny sob at Draco’s declaration that the _face_ she saw wasn’t to blame. She knew that the _face_ — _Draco’s_ face (and Draco’s _body—Draco)_ —wasn’t to be blamed; she had accepted that long ago. What affected her was the thought of how Draco would react if she told him that the _face—_ the _body—_ was HIS? How would Draco react to the fact that the memories of her rape included HIM? Furthermore, that she knew what he looked like naked?

“I’m not going to hurt him, Hermione,” Draco informed her in his best placating tone. “But….maybe….I could help you figure out who it was who actually attacked you, yeah? Please,” Draco supplicated persuasively. He told himself that he wasn’t trying to manipulate her, but he was a Slytherin, after all, and cunning was just his nature. He was an ‘the ends justify the means’ kind of bloke.

Despite Draco’s successful effort to hide it, he was livid and he WAS currently planning to execute justice on Hermione’s behalf just as soon as he figured out who his real target was.

 _After all, what is the point of knowing Unforgivables if you can’t use them for righteous purposes? Surely a Gryffindor would understand that_ , he thought.

His fury was just below the surface, kept in check by the ability to control his emotions and expressions, which he had honed since childhood. He was a master of masks, to everyone except the Dark Lord, of course, and that was only because the Dark Lord was exceptionally terrifying (not to mention a very skilled Legillimens). Right now, Draco needed Hermione to see and to trust the mask, which showed no signs of his desire for revenge.

He was incensed that some _degenerate_ had raped Hermione, violated HER—the girl he’d come to think of as HIS! At first, to him, she’d only been his charge….his _task_. Then Draco had (however unwillingly at first) become attached to and protective of her. Now, though….Now, he was possessive of her. He’d finally—finally—received her admiration and friendship after years of envying Potter and Weasley (and, for a short time, Krum) because they were the ones receiving it, and he wasn’t about to allow his prized possession to be damaged—in any way, shape, or form. The fact that she already had been damaged….that sparked his indignation to a wild blaze.

Besides his indignation on Hermione’s behalf, her rape had ramifications for him that he couldn’t dismiss, as much as he wanted to. This _should_ be all about her, but, inescapably, it was also about him, too. Hermione being raped meant that Draco had not been as vigilant in his task to keep males— _filthy bastards, more like_ —away from her. He failed that task; he’d probably failed it because he’d been so consumed with trying to accomplish his _other_ task, he realized.

 _Damned if I do, damned if I don’t_ , he thought bitterly.

He failed, and he would pay for his failure; he had no illusions of leniency from the Dark Lord.

More importantly to him, though, was that he failed Hermione. He felt he’d harmed her personally—as if it had been her honor, and not her body, that he had been charged with protecting all along. He felt tremendously guilty.

_No wonder Potter had been her shadow since the start of term; he probably feels guilty, too._

Draco had been tasked with "keeping males away from the Mudblood Granger—preventing the possibility for anything sexual." That statement had been the extent of what he’d been told about his task regarding Hermione. Draco had wondered, of course, at the time why he hadn’t been tasked with killing Hermione. He had been surprised that he hadn’t been tasked with the murder of ‘Harry Potter’s Mudblood’ as well as the ‘great honor’ of assassinating his Headmaster. Draco didn’t, however, presume to understand the workings of the deranged mind of the Dark Lord, but it hadn’t make sense to him. Neither did he care; he’d been relieved that at least she was not on his hit list.

Despite not being given any other details regarding his task concerning Hermione, the truth of what he was supposed to prevent was quite blatant; the vague wording of his task obviously meant that Hermione was not to be _bedded_. Thus, that either meant that her virginity was not to be taken (if indeed she was still—had been, anyway—a virgin) or that she was not to be impregnated. He’d always been sure that the true intent of him protecting Hermione from being bedded was to prevent a pregnancy.

 _Well, she’s been bedded, that much is a certainty_ , he thought glumly while holding the object of his thoughts in his arms and loving every second of it. But as for the rest….he didn’t know—yet.

While waiting for Hermione (he certainly was not going to rush her—to _force_ her), Draco focused his thoughts on the facts:

 _Some bloke bedding Hermione was definitely not ideal, but it wasn’t exactly failure, was it_? he thought with a glimmer of hope.

 _IF she’s pregnant AND word of it gets back to The Evil Reptile,_ he thought morosely, _my whole family is dead, and Hermione (and therefore the baby) would be next._

_IF the pregnancy stays secret but she births a baby AND word gets back to Snakeface, my whole family is dead._

_However, what the Dark Lord doesn’t know can’t kill me, and that is how I’ve got to deal with this. IF she is pregnant, no one can find out—no one._

Draco was confident that he could hide the truth from the Dark Lord. Although the Dark Lord was a skilled Legilimens, Draco was an accomplished Occlumens; his own mother had personally seen to that before Draco had even been forced to take the Mark.

_She’d seen the writing on the wall far sooner than I had._

What he needed to do was to ensure that Hermione’s rape was kept secret, thus ensuring that no word regarding Hermione’s loss of virginity or possible pregnancy would reach the flat-faced monster.

Right now, though, his priority was getting Hermione to be honest with him.

As Hermione sat in Draco’s warm, comforting embrace, she pondered the repercussions that her next statements to Draco could incite. Not being accustomed to having a problem that her highly rational mind and strong sense of ethics couldn’t allow her to easily solve, she was struggling. This situation wasn’t black and white. 

Hermione was not sure that Draco could be any help in finding her rapist, nor was she even sure she wanted to know the identity of the _despicable sod_ who had raped her. She had got past the ordeal and she had accepted that what had happened was for the greater good. All bad memories of her rape (which, really, weren’t all that bad as she’d been under the influence of the love potion) and all bad memories of the aftermath of the rape (which had given her the most anxiety) had been replaced with good ones—real ones—of Draco. She hadn’t let her rape define her or damage her; she’d moved on, and the last thing she wanted know was to drudge it all up again.

And yet….she knew that she shouldn’t lie to him. Watching her mother and father’s marriage had taught her that people who were committed to one another didn’t tell lies; though she and Draco barely had a relationship, lying wouldn’t do anything to further it. And, in addition, Draco was involved, indirectly, in her rape, and so didn’t that mean that he had a right to know? Didn’t she have the obligation to tell him? She hadn’t wanted to at Christmas, but she hadn’t trusted him then like she trusted him now.

Furthermore, as much as she thought that the best course of action would be to ‘tell all’….as noble as it would be to be completely honest with him….as much as she desired to prove that she trusted him….the reality was that it could cause a problem between her and Draco that was too vast, too complicated, too….downright _odd_ to overcome, Hermione feared.

Being completely honest….no lies of omission….telling _all_ ….well, _that_ was not actually going to be possible. _All_ included the Prophecy, which Dumbledore had asked Hermione (and she had agreed) to keep a secret. _All_ included the babies, and their safety could not be jeopardized; they were too important. The babies were innocents, and Hermione refused to sacrifice them for the sake of being completely truthful.

Hermione’s mind went back and forth until she looked over her shoulder at Draco—into his eyes, which searched eyes as intently as hers searched his. They grounded her, they entranced her; to Hermione, they held answers. Ever since they danced together at the Masquerade Ball, looking into his eyes made Hermione feel protected. And this time, after looking into his beautiful, soulful, grey eyes, she knew that she had to answer him satisfactorily.

Summoning all of her courage to tell him a hurtful, twisted, and somewhat far-fetched truth (as well as the courage to fight her natural instinct to tell him the _whole_ truth), she inhaled and exhaled deeply. 

Hermione murmured to Draco, her head down on her right shoulder once more.

“What? I didn’t hear that,” he said patiently in her left ear, stroking her curly hair and her back soothingly. Hermione almost didn’t want to repeat it because she feared that this comforting situation would expire when she did.

“You,” she croaked, tears beginning to drip out from under her tightly shut lids. “He looked like you, Draco.”

Draco’s stroking movements on Hermione’s arms and hair stilled and his chest constricted tightly, forcing him to gasp harshly when he heard Hermione’s words. He replayed what he had just heard in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He turned her body so he could look at her directly in her eyes; then he knew.

Draco felt like his blood was boiling; he had to release his tight grip on Hermione to literally cool down. He knew that the rapist had gotten a strand of his hair somehow. He thought quickly. He didn’t allow people close to his hair (or to his person in general), so it was most likely someone close to him; of all the people who had access to him and his room and belongings (which really only consisted of a few of the Slytherins as the dorm room that he shared with four roommates was password protected) who would do such a thing? Surely it hadn’t been one of his roommates; he couldn’t fathom any of them wanting to ‘sully themselves’ with a ‘Mudblood.’

Then Draco pictured it; he imagined the events unfolding, Hermione being seduced while under the influence—tricked—by HIM! In the past, he’d indulged in fantasies of sex with Hermione, but this time—knowing that what he was currently imagining was actually RAPE—he derived no pleasure from it.

He felt woozy at the realization that Hermione had seen HIM….she had thought that HE was the one who had violated her! She had the memory of HIS face being the one associated with her rape! He felt sick knowing that HE had been the cause of what he had witnessed that night in the corridor. Her brokenness that night had bothered him immensely, as had the memories of it since, and now he was overcome with grief at the knowledge that he had caused it.

Draco’s eyes found Hermione’s; they met his unfailingly.

 _Unfailingly_ , he thought. _This witch looks at me_ unfailingly.

Draco, finally finding his voice, asked, “How can you look at me? How can you stand me? How—how did you….cope….with me there with you, at your home on Holiday—after my face was the one….?”

Hermione smiled and looked pensive before answering, “I knew it hadn’t been YOU. It wasn’t easy, but….” she shrugged. Draco just stared in awe.

Hermione continued, seizing the opportunity. “The fact was that you didn’t hurt me. You hadn’t been….callous….to me all term, and I had no logical reason to fear you,” she explained frankly, and then continued quietly but just as genuinely. “It was the same as when I saw this,” she explained as she reached out for Draco’s left arm, touching his inner forearm where she knew his Mark was.

Draco made to move his arm away from her touch; he didn’t like being reminded of it, and he felt horrible that she even knew it was there, let alone that she would touch it. Hermione held it tight, though, and Draco gave up, rather glad to have her touching him, even if it were on his Mark.

“This isn’t you, either, Draco. I see who you are, when we are here, together. I’m not afraid or repulsed by the Mark or by you because I see no reason to be,” Hermione said candidly and serenely.

Draco felt like there was a knife in his chest and her words were twisting it. _If she only knew what I’ve been commanded to do…._

Draco pulled her to him again, her back against his chest, his arms encircling her, his nose in her hair, taking in the smell of her shampoo. Her words should be comforting him now, but he only felt worse: guiltier, more anxious, hating himself.

Untangling her arms from under his, Hermione wrapped her hands around his wrists and pulled his arms around her waist tightly, sighing contentedly as she leaned into him. The gesture surprised him as it was more intimate, but he smiled, though she couldn’t see it.

“I….appreciate your graciousness, Hermione,” Draco said softly, to which Hermione smiled, though he couldn’t see it. He stroked her sides with his thumbs and rested his chin on Hermione’s head.

“Your concern for me is appreciated, Draco,” she replied. There was so much she wanted to say to him, and as she sat cozily in his arms, she thought about it all; but the day, as well as the night before, had been long and emotionally draining, and her eyelids were extremely heavy, and it wasn’t long before she was asleep.

When he realized she was asleep, Draco awkwardly guided Hermione to recline on her side, and he on his, on the cushions and summoned their blankets from the other morning. Still holding her tight in his arms, he continued ruminating on everything.

 _Bloody hell_ , he thought. _Hermione knows what I look like NAKED_!

He felt quite embarrassed, to say the least—at first. After he considered it for a moment, all embarrassment vanished as quickly as it had surfaced, pride filling the void.

 _I do have a cracking body—well, I DID in December, anyway. There’s no way she didn’t enjoy the view,_ he thought smugly, a smirk appearing on his pale face.

The thing that miffed him, though, was that he didn’t have the memory of a naked Hermione, and as he lay next to her, alone with her, holding her, that feeling grew—exponentially. He wouldn’t act on it, of course—not now, anyway. Someday, maybe, he thought with a small smile as he drifted off to sleep, hoping that in his dreams, at least, he’d see Hermione naked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave me a note with your thoughts!


	7. Chapter 7

-March 22, 1997

Hermione awoke needing to pee due to the weight and pressure of two babies pressing on her bladder, but she quickly realized that her full bladder wasn’t the only thing causing her discomfort. Despite having slept on pillows and blankets, the stone floor was unforgiving, hard, and cold. She wondered how she had been able to stay warm—that is until she saw Draco asleep next to her. She was mortified, at first, that she had ‘spent the night’ with Draco; that’s not the kind of girl she was (even though nothing physical had happened).

 _Although I did dream that Draco was shirtless,_ she realized after her sleepy, sluggish brain became more cognizant.

She wasn’t worried that anything inappropriate had happened while she was sleeping, however; Draco always treated her respectfully—ever since their mutual loathing had dramatically changed into a friendship.

 _He is so different from who he used to be….from who I thought he was,_ she pondered as she carefully stood from the floor while doing a little ‘potty dance.’

As the Room of Hidden Things did not include a lavatory, she had no choice but to leave, even though she wasn’t keen for Draco to find her gone when he awoke. She less keen to wake him, though; he’d looked so tired and worn down lately. Knowing that they both had their charmed journals with them, she wrote a message in hers:

_"Need the loo and going to shower and change and get breakfast. I’ll bring some for you.’_

She ‘sent’ it to his journal before heading to Gryffindor Tower, confident that he’d see the glow when he woke and would check it for her message.

After leaving the Room cautiously (looking out for students and professors who would not look favorably on her having slept in the Room), she realized that she’d underestimated the time of day. The Room had no windows, and so she’d not had to sun to rely on to determine the time of day; she’d only assumed it was morning. A quick glance at a clock in the corridor told her that it was nearly time for lunch.

Upon entering the Gryffindor Common Room, she remembered that there was a Quidditch match today. Hastily, she wrote a note to Harry and sent it with Hedwig, informing him that she was fine but that she would not be seeing him at the pitch.

Hermione smiled and hummed happily. Today was Saturday, so she and Draco could spend the whole rest of the day together. She was beyond excited to freshen up and get back to him; she had plans to convince him to play for her today.

Standing naked in front of the full-length mirror after her shower, she examined her pregnant body; she didn’t often get to do this for fear of other girls coming in. She definitely looked pregnant while naked. Madam Pomfrey said that she’d show earlier because she was having twins, and Hermione could certainly see that the Madam was right. She put on her knickers and pants and examined herself sideways in the mirror again; she still looked pregnant. With her loose knitted jumper covering her abdomen, she didn’t appear pregnant until she moved in certain ways. In her uniform, the bump would be blatant in a matter of weeks if not for the few charms that existed (and which she had learned) to extend her clothing and to disillusion her belly. And her robe would, of course, hide much—she was so thankful for her robe! But even those measures weren’t foolproof. She needed to make sure that her belly was never visible or touched as that negated the effectiveness of the Concealment Charm.

She wondered how in the heavens she was to keep people away from her ever-expanding and soon-to-be-humongous front? How was she to keep Draco from realizing that she was bigger than she looked when he wrapped his arms around her….

At that thought, she got lost for several moments in a daydream.

 _Ah, Draco wrapping his arms around my middle…_.

 _Snap out of it, witch! You have more pressing issues!_ she scolded herself.

While dressing and brushing and such, she thought about her dilemma with Draco, and she sulked. Things were so good with him, and she felt like things could get even better. How could she and Draco become closer (literally and figuratively) without him finding out her secret, though?

And if he DID find out? If Ron or Harry were in Draco’s situation (being the boyfriend of a girl who was pregnant), they’d stick by her, even if they knew that the baby was the unintended product of rape, she thought confidently. But Draco….the Pureblood boyfriend of a Muggleborn who was pregnant with the babies of some other guy (some _random_ guy, at that)? It was so far from anything she imagined he’d been taught to accept for his life.

 _If he did find out about my pregnancy,_ she postulated dejectedly, _he’d bail faster than a Snitch flies_.

~

An hour had passed since she had left the Room when she re-entered it, walking slowly and pensively through the labyrinth that was the Room. She was only half-paying attention to her trek and so was startled when she heard cursing and crashing noises coming from an unknown location in the Room. She immediately drew her wand, looking around her and trying not to have flashbacks from the melee at the Department of Mysteries.

_At least it’s not so dark in here like it was there._

She continued walking to her and Draco’s meeting spot, maintaining ‘constant vigilance.’ When she arrived, Draco was not there. She heard no instruments or other sounds except a frustrated growl-like yell and a slew of colorful curse words.

“Draco? Are you here?” Hermione hollered hesitantly, hoping she wasn’t making a very stupid mistake.

The yelling and cursing immediately ceased, and Draco’s voice rang out. “I’m here, just….stay there. I’m coming.”

Hermione nervously waited for him, pacing. Draco’s tone had sounded….tense, and she was anxious to know why, although, truthfully, she was also hesitant to know as she suspected that the reason might scare her. He was normally so calm, and his swearing was almost non-existent around her since they began their rendezvous—until now.

When Draco rounded a corner that led to their secluded little spot, Hermione knew he was agitated still; his body posture showed tension and his brow was furrowed (although it wasn’t the most severe frown she’d ever seen on him).

 _He needs a massage_ , said a little wicked voice inside of her, and she could actually feel her heart beat faster at the thought. She told her hormone-hyped up alter ego to ‘shut it’ and tried to calm herself down. She forced her expression into one that would belie her lustful thoughts (the imagined shirtless Draco from her dream last night was still fresh in her mind and wrecking havoc on her ability to focus).

Coming to her senses, she saw Draco now sitting in a chair in their little den. He was clearly brooding, focused on something (which turned out to be actually nothing) on the floor.

She had a strong urge to stand in front of him and play with his hair, which was mussed from sleep and looked like he’d been tugging at it. With timid steps, she advanced on him until he spoke.

“Did you hear me….cursing?” he asked, still not looking at her. She thought that maybe—just maybe—he looked ashamed.

“Uh, a bit,” she hedged, wanting to soften the blow for him. She took a few more cautious steps toward him.

“I’m sorry you had to hear it,” he said quietly but in a clipped tone, still not looking at her.

_Right; the expression was shame._

She was within an arm’s reach of his mussed hair now, and it was beckoning to her like mythical sirens enticing sailors at sea. She reached out for it, and he must have seen her arm coming because he looked up at her, warily. Too late she saw his wary glance; her fingers were already in his locks.

 _So soft_ , she thought dreamily, _just_ _like in my dreams._

Draco allowed the contact, basking in the feel of her dainty fingers in his hair and her nails on his scalp. The pleasure was short lived; his thoughts quickly flew to his hair having been used in Polyjuice for the purpose of raping her. The thought made him snarl in vexation, and Hermione, thinking the growl was meant for her, withdrew her hands as a gasp escaped her lips, and she took a couple of frantic steps away from Draco.

Draco quirked an eyebrow at her sudden huff and hasty retreat. Moments later, he realized his mistake, and his hands reached for hers. Seeing from his expression that she need not fear him, she granted him what he had wordlessly asked and allowed him to pull her close once again. He guided her fingers back into his locks, and for several minutes he closed his eyes and delighted in Hermione’s ministrations. After a while, he looked up and unabashedly gazed at her; he searched her eyes and inspected first her inviting lips and then her slender, naked throat. Then he frowned, a barrage of turbulent thoughts tormenting him once again.

 _He is really taking his brooding to a whole new level today_ , Hermione mused.

“Draco?” she asked timidly but in a way that was meant to invite him to open up to her; she longed for that, and at that moment, she surmised that he needed to talk as much as she wanted to listen. Draco waited for her to continue, but at her silence, he realized what she was after.

“Your necklace. You….You’re not wearing it,” he stiffly stated, clearly hurt and defensive. Hermione jerked a hand to her throat, and, realizing that she was indeed without it, her mouth formed an ‘o’ in surprise.

“Oh! I took it off to shower and I forgot to put it back on—but I know it’s safe on my dresser,” she explained.

Draco looked relieved, but annoyed, which, in turn, annoyed (and perplexed) Hermione.

 _He is in such a bewildering mood today!_ Then her eyes went wide as it dawned on her what he must be thinking.

“Oh, I’m so thick!” she exclaimed, placing her palm to her forehead. “You think I don’t like it, don’t you?”

Draco’s expression softened the tiniest bit before it morphed into one of indifference; his eyes told her he felt otherwise.

“I am sorry, Draco,” she apologized. “I am just not used to wearing it yet, and so I forgot to put it on again after my shower. I—well—” she stammered, feeling shy about telling the truth—“I was rushing to get back to you,” she said blushing fiercely.

Draco appreciated the blush, apparently, because he grinned broadly at her, while internally cursing himself for choosing a ribbon instead of a gold chain, which could get wet without harm being done.

“I really do love it!” she continued, happy to be seeing his face illuminate with happiness—and his gorgeous, elusive smile. “I love the meaning behind it and how unique it is,” she said earnestly and not realizing that she’d just given away too much.

Draco quirked an eyebrow as a little smirk played on his lips. Hermione breathed an internal sigh of relief and continued to amuse herself with his hair.

“Seeing you wearing it….it makes me right chuffed, honestly. Will you wear it every day?” he asked, and Hermione thought he sounded like a little boy who is afraid his mother doesn’t like something he made for her. She felt like a part of her heart melted, and she smiled brilliantly and nodded her head.

“Every day,” she promised, crossing her heart and then crossing her fingers; she then had to explain the Muggle superstition (and the fact that she really held no stock in superstitions) to him.

“Do….you….want to talk about why….about what’s bothering you?” she asked him thoughtfully.

She’s so….sweet, he thought, his mood improving slightly at that. Most girls he knew would tell him to get over himself or not to ruin their good mood with his sulking—but not Hermione. And he DID want to tell her what was wrong, but only because he wanted to confide in her, not because he really wanted her to know. He categorically and unequivocally did not want her to know! Venting would be cathartic, but it wouldn’t do anything for his relationship with Hermione— _his_ Hermione. His Hermione couldn’t know about his difficulties with the cabinet. He just shook his head.

“Would you like to play the piano—try that duet again? Or you could watch me embarrass myself trying to play for you?” she teased. “We could study? Or—if you’re hungry—I brought some lunch,” she suggested, trying to banish his broodiness.

He saw her little angle, and his lips twitched for a moment before he cleared his throat and said, “I’d like to eat.” He very much wanted to hear Hermione sing, but he didn’t feel like playing in order to get her to do it. He’d have to figure out another way to entice her to sing to him, but that could wait; he was starving.

Hermione nodded happily and thought that, like Ron, Draco’s mood always seemed to improve with food; whether it was just innate to Draco’s personality or because he seemed to rarely eat, she didn’t know.

They ate quietly, both being hungry having missed breakfast and both having higher nutritional needs than what was normal (Hermione because of her twin pregnancy, and Draco because of the high-stress life he was living). Although the quietness did not feel awkward, they each made an attempt at small talk; Draco asked Hermione how she was feeling, and Hermione made comments on the food and how accommodating the House Elves were to prepare their lunch for them.

While eating, Draco thought of how to get her to sing, and she thought about how to help improve his mood. In the end, Hermione came up with a few new ideas (she had a feeling that studying and playing the violin or piano weren’t going to cut the mustard, so to speak), but Draco was at a loss.

The first idea Hermione proposed to Draco excited him enough; she Accio’d a broom from who knows where in the Room and suggested that Draco fly in the room—she even had thought to Accio a Snitch, and luckily, there had been one in the Room, somewhere. Draco’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, so much so that he almost forgot to thank her before he kicked off and was up in the air chasing his Snitch. Hermione grinned and set to work on essays.

At least an hour later, Hermione thought, Draco was still up in the air, and Hermione, having finished one essay, lied down to watch him zooming across the Room, dodging towers of rubbish as if they were Bludgers. He looked completely at ease on his broom.

 _And completely yummy_ , she thought, blushing.

His light blond locks swept off of his face in the wind created by the high speed of flying, and she could see the determination to catch the Snitch on his face and his love for Seeking it.

Draco looked so happy, and Hermione was happy watching him; then again, she was always happy just being _with_ him—being close to him and being his girlfriend (or whatever label she had). She wanted this to continue, but no matter how well things seemed to be going, she had a tiny (but persistent) feeling that she and Draco would not last. Maybe it would be because of her pregnancy, or the current political climate—she didn’t know. Nevertheless, she started to weep.

 _Stop this, Hermione. You’re being irrational. You’re being emotional and hormonal. Stop crying, you big ball bag!_ she scolded herself. Attempting to temper the wave of emotions rolling over her, she began singing to calm herself down; it had always worked for her in the past.

~

Skillfully landing nearby, Draco took a moment to relish in the exhilarated feeling he got after flying, and, especially, after catching the Snitch, before he rounded a pile of rubbish to return to Hermione.

 _My witch is probably doing homework, hair a bloody mess and ink on her fingers,_ he thought affectionately. The scene he came upon surprised him—but pleased him at the same time. _What luck_ , he thought morosely of the irony of getting one thing he wanted at the expense of something he didn’t want. He wondered what it was that had caused her tears, and he fervently hoped that it had not been him; he knew that he had been a brooding and cantankerous prat so far today.

Still, the situation was one of which he, ever the Slytherin, couldn’t help but take advantage. Feeling giddy and guilty simultaneously, he whipped out his wand to ‘record’ Hermione’s crooning. He stood still, barely daring to breath for fear of startling her. If he’d still been angry and frustrated, hearing her voice singing would have calmed him quickly; as it happened, his cunning and caring girlfriend’s idea for him to fly had done the job already, but he was relieved that he’d have her song recorded for his next near-breakdown. And, he realized happily, this recording came with the experience that would turn into a memory that he could recall the next time he needed Hermione and didn’t have her near—unlike the recordings that would be transferred from her choker to his wand in the future (if Hermione did indeed wear it as she promised).

Hermione was singing one of the songs she and Draco had danced to at the Ball, Draco realized after his gleeful internal musings ceased. It was called “It’s Your Love,” he recalled, and it brought back to him the memory of their first dance together.

He had been the one to suggest that the Ball be a Masquerade. He’d even created the Muggle music playlist. He’d worked relentlessly in learning to transfigure his hair and eye color, but is teeth, skin, height, weight, and voice had remained unchanged that night, as he had not yet mastered the transfiguration of them. Draco had found the perfect mask, though, and if it hadn’t been for that, he would never have had the opportunity to dance with Hermione. She would never have willingly danced with ‘Draco Malfoy’ at that point in time (in public or private), and he could never have risked his reputation (and his mother’s safety) by being seen with her in such an intimate way.

Draco pulled himself from his thoughts to listen to Hermione sing. The words didn’t seem right, or, rather, the words seemed perfect, but it was the person saying them that was completely wrong.

 _I_ _am the one who should be conveying these words to her,_ he thought. The song near-perfectly described how he felt about Hermione.

_“Better than I was, more than I am,_

_And all of this happened by taking your hand.”_

He’d touched her for the first time that night at the Ball, and it had been more than what he’d expected. Before the Ball, he’d been ambivalent about being so close to her, having never touched a Muggleborn before. At that time, overcoming his indoctrinated, bigoted beliefs had been an obstacle (much to his shame now). Before that night, in the weeks leading up to the Ball, the extent to which he had wanted to touch her had actually petrified him. At the Ball, as he’d taken her hand in one of his and cradled her elbow in the other, he felt thrills suffuse through him from the points of their contact. Their contact had (and still did) exhilarated him. Unexpectedly, touching her had felt like the easiest thing in the world. When he’d pulled her close—wanting to get acquainted with her scent and her skin and the feel of her—wanting to _hold_ her—he’d kept a reserved, appropriate distance between them, but if he’d had more time with her that night ( _if bloody Potter hadn’t tried to de-mask him),_ he would have pulled her tight to him….possibly even _too_ tight to be considered respectable.

_“And who I am now is who I wanted to be,_

_And now that we’re together, I’m stronger than ever….”_

Before recent weeks, hadn’t understood his attraction to her—at all—but he hadn’t cared. All he had known was that he wanted her, and he’d been determined to get her; he always got what he wanted.

Then, surprisingly, the _want_ he felt had turned to _need_. He needed—craved—her presence and her calming singing. Being with her was like….sustenance. He needed her like he needed to eat and to breathe; in fact, by the way he felt about her now, he reckoned he’d choose her over eating—breathing, too, if that were really possible. He wouldn’t give up time with her for anything. Being with Hermione was the bright spot in his life right now; if it weren’t for Hermione’s smiling face, sincere words, comforting touches and melodies, and the unrelenting and unexpected devotion that she had for him, he probably would have thrown himself off of the Astronomy Tower by now.

_“And if you ask me why I’ve changed,_

_All I gotta do is say your sweet name.”_

Because of Hermione and everything she is, he had changed his beliefs on Pureblood Supremacy. He was acting against a lifetime of indoctrination for which his parents would disown him.

_“I can’t get enough._

_And if you wonder about the spell I’m under,_

_Oh, it’s your love.”_

He knew he should be focusing all of his energy on repairing the Vanishing Cabinet, but every time he tried, he only craved Hermione more. He wanted to hole up in the Room of Hidden Things with her, talking, playing, holding her, stroking her wild curls, listening to her sing, learning about her, debating with her, waking up with her….he’d never felt about any girl the way he felt about Hermione.

He wanted nothing more than the freedom to forget about every thing besides her; he wanted her to forget, too, but Hermione Granger forgetting about lessons, exams, prefect responsibilities, and _her two bloody boys_ was inconceivable. Making the most of the time he did have with her was all he could hope for, and he sought to make Hermione value their time together more than she valued anything else. Of course he knew that he couldn’t keep her with him at all times; he couldn’t complete his task otherwise, and he HAD to complete it—his family was depending upon it. Regardless of the changes he’d undergone recently, his loyalty to his family had not—ideals, yes, but his mother and father, no.

Draco had thought that the cabinet would be an easy fix, but it was proving difficult, despite his above-average intelligence and magical talent, and the amount of time and effort he’d dedicated to the task. A great deal of his time was being spent with Hermione lately, but he considered it to be a _necessary_ break from his work—to clear his mind, refocus—so that he could have the breakthrough he needed to mend the cabinet. The cabinet that was the bane of his existence….the cabinet that was preventing him from spending more of his time with his girl.

~

By the time Hermione had reached the end of the song, she was calm, smiling, and distracted (thinking about Draco). She lied on the plush cushions there a few minutes, until she heard Draco return to their little milieu. She sat up to great him and smiled at his contented expression. He smiled back at her, showing off his perfectly straight and white teeth that made up his dreamy smile, which made her feel as if she were melting.

 _These six years at Hogwarts would have been SO different if he’d been sending those fabulous smiles, instead of his disdainful sneers, my way,_ she thought regrettably.

“You enjoyed yourself, then?” she asked, her lips twisting at his blatant happiness, assuming it originated from his flying and Seeking. She marveled at how gorgeous he was when he was happy. Draco nodded as he fiddled with his wand.

“You alright?” he asked, kneeling down and thumbing a rogue tear off her jaw, thinking that even when she was crying she looked pretty—her eyes bright and blood coloring her cheeks. She blushed and nodded.

“Ready to study?” she asked.

“In a while,” he nodded and then swallowed hard before he adopted the most pitiful expression onto his pale, pointed face. “First, will you sing again?”

Astonishment appeared on Hermione’s face. “You heard me?” she squeaked before covering her mouth. Draco nodded.

“Please, Mione?” he asked and blushed, the little spots of pink working wonders on his fair face as he said her special nickname, this time _knowing_ she was conscious when he said it.

Her special nickname! She hadn’t expected it, and more than a bit of happy surprise showed on her face. Hermione’s heart felt like it was going to break through her chest, and she closed her eyes to savor the moment. She was on cloud nine! Draco was full of surprises lately, and they overwhelmed her—in a good way. She couldn’t deny him now! She grinned widely at him and nodded.

“Alright, I’ll sing, BUT,” she said joyfully, pointing a finger at him and lightly poking him in his chest, “you have to sit behind me, and no laughing.” A little laugh of her own escaped her; she couldn’t deal with her happiness any other way but smiling and laughing. It had been so long—so very long—since she’d felt this way.

Draco moved to sit behind her as she’d demanded; he leaned back on a piece of furniture and she leaned into him. “Any requests?” she asked shyly, as she wrapped her arms protectively around her bump; she couldn’t have him resting his hands there. Draco wrapped one arm over hers and rested one—his wand arm—on his thigh and thought for a moment.

“Do you remember the second song we danced to—it was about a smile?” he asked timidly and smelling her hair.

 _Coconut_. _Exotic—a surprising scent for an outwardly conventional, down-to-earth girl like Hermione_ , he thought. He’d expected some flowery scent before he had first become acquainted with the smell of her hair. _Coconut_. One scent he detected when he smelled Amortentia.

Hermione smiled broadly.

“Yes.”

She sang the song ‘When I See You Smile,’ and Draco, with a tiny brandish of his wand, recorded her crooning and closed his eyes, imagining that she meant every word just for him.

She did.

~

Toward dinnertime, after actually doing some essays and studying, Draco and Hermione agreed that they were both half-starved and decided that Draco should sneak out to raid the kitchen for food and bring it back to the Room. Hermione made him promise to be polite to the Elves _for her_. For HER, Draco promised with a huge smile, he would. He then disillusioned himself in front of her and she shrieked in joy.

“Draco Malfoy! You—you….” she said in awe.

Draco laughed—heartily—and grinned as he saw the pure admiration on her face.

 _This,_ he thought, _is what I’ve been desiring so long._

Disillusionment Charms were advanced magic and were in the curriculum for next year, Hermione knew (of course Hermione knew). She had tried them before but had not been successful (a fact which thoroughly irritated her).

“Teach me,” she demanded, pulling out her wand. Draco re-illusioned himself and tempered his huge grin to a smirk and nodded to her. Draco told her that he knew a ‘trick’ to performing the charm successfully, and he taught her to perfect it in ten minutes.

“Alright, I’ll return soon,” Draco said as he made his way out of their secret place.

“Wait!” Hermione cried impulsively. “Let’s go together,” she said as she took his hand in hers. Smiling, she couldn’t help but be thankful that he’d hexed her teeth in fourth year so that she’d had the reason to use magic to make them prettier than they’d been before.

 _Huh,_ she thought. _How….fortuitous and almost ironic._

After they both performed the Disillusionment Charm, they headed out of the Room. The seventh floor was deserted as they walked, holding hands tightly. At the first student they saw, they dropped one another’s hands automatically as they’d forgotten they were disillusioned. After that, they latched on to the other (at bit awkwardly as they couldn’t see each other’s hand) until they reached the kitchen and then again on the trek back to the Room. Hermione had never walked the halls holding hands with any guy except Harry and Ron, so she was elated to be finally experiencing what she’d envied other girls for years.

She didn’t even care that no one could see her (or that she couldn’t even see Draco). It was kind of a way to ease into their relationship going public, Hermione thought; they were in public but wouldn’t be forced to endure stares, whispers, gossip, and, most importantly, censure from their friends.

They ate their meal on the floor, ‘picnic-style,’ Hermione had commented (and then had had to explain the term to Draco).

 _The poor Pureblood doesn’t even know what a picnic is,_ she thought, half-pityingly and half-amusedly. They fell into another comfortable silence while eating—both thinking of things they needed to tell and ask the other.

Hermione ate one treacle tart for dessert—thinking of Harry as it was his favorite treat—and waited for Draco to finish his second dessert before she asked her question.

“Draco, I’m wondering….would you mind telling me the meaning behind my choker?” she asked timidly with lowered lashes.

Draco startled, worried that she knew about the charm he’d placed on the Bloodstone. After a moment, however, he realized that she probably was talking about the significance of the stone itself and not the spell on it. He cleared his throat, staring at her, trying to remember the words he’d spoken to her in the Hospital Wing two nights previous.

“A meaning beyond the fact that it’s the traditional birthstone for the month of March?” he asked with two raised brows and a smirk, trying to play cool, trying to deny the existence of a deeper meaning behind his choice of stone. He wasn’t sure he was brave enough to say the words.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean,” she said with a smirk of her own. “Please tell me, Draco?” she asked sincerely. Draco, accustomed though he was to getting his own way and to being the manipulator and not the one to be manipulated, couldn’t refuse her.

“I chose it—partly—because it is green and red….” he admitted sheepishly and referring to their House colors. “When the jeweler showed me the March birthstones and told me that there was one called ‘Bloodstone’…” He faltered here, not used to being so honest, so transparent, so unguarded. He looked at Hermione, who was fiddling with her fingers and not looking at him—hoping he’d feel less pressure, Draco surmised. He was relieved that this witch understood him so well already, and that gave him a modicum of courage to finish his explanation.

“I chose the Bloodstone because blood….yours….mine….it doesn’t matter to me, Hermione. Not anymore.”

Hermione’s heart fluttered, her stomach flip-flopped, and her breath hitched at his confession. She broke out in a huge grin while she was looking into her lap, her hair making a curtain around her face. When she looked up at Draco, her expression was so happy and sincere that it made Draco thoroughly embarrassed. Tears welled up in her eyes, of course, and she whispered, “Truly, Draco?”

Draco couldn’t say a thing, so he just nodded vigorously. The second Hermione saw his gesture, she brought herself up to her knees and walked on them to Draco, placing a very quick kiss on his cheek and saying, “Thank you, for that. I—I’m….” she stopped herself, but Draco prodded her.

“You are what, Mione?” he asked gently, breathing heavily at her being so close, at her kissing him, and in anticipation of what may come. He reached out to hold her hand, intending the action to give her a modicum of courage this time.

“I’m proud of you, Draco,” she said quietly but earnestly, squeezing his hand and locking eyes with him, beaming over his use of her special nickname again.

Draco froze. He could count the number of times that someone had told him they were proud of him on one hand; his parents, especially his father, had never been emotionally available to him. Although Draco had always strived to gain the approval of his father and to keep the affection of his mother, he’d never been told that he made them proud, even when he’d suspected that he had. It made Draco uncomfortable to hear it from Hermione, and it showed on his face, but inside he was humming with pleasure at her words. In response, though, he merely nodded and squeezed her hand again.

He wanted to pull her to him, pull her onto his lap, and snog her breathless, but he knew better than to treat Hermione that way. She needed to be in control, and he knew that after her rape, he needed to be very, very patient. So instead of giving into his impulses, he stood and assisted Hermione to stand and led her to the broom he’d ridden on earlier.

“Come on,” he said as he mounted the broom and smacked the stick behind him. Hermione’s eyes widened, and Draco adopted a faux-superior expression, smirked, and drawled, “Aren’t Gryffindors known for their bravery, Granger?”

Hermione vigorously shook her head. “No. Nope. I—I—I’ll—vomit—or—pass out if I fly,” she stammered and struggled to find an excuse that was the truth but not the whole truth; Madam Pomfrey had told her that flying during pregnancy is not safe.

Draco looked at her suspiciously for a moment before dropping the broom and beginning to run. “Fair enough. Catch me, then, _Granger_ ,” he said with a playful grin, disappearing behind a stack of junk. Hermione hadn’t played tag in ages—she was, after all, seventeen years old (and an ‘indoor girl’)—but Draco’s playfulness was so unexpected that it was almost contagious, and Hermione couldn’t resist chasing him through the Room.

After quite a while of Draco leading her throughout the Room and dodging her at every turn, they both collapsed on a sofa, laughing and needing a breather. They both had reddened cheeks and were slightly glowing with a sheen of perspiration. Hermione performed a Scourgify on herself, and Draco did the same before he stood up, proceeding to remove his black dress shirt, revealing a white undershirt that Hermione knew to be of the Muggle ‘wife beater’ style. She stared, her mouth open. Draco was so pale that he was almost as white as his shirt, and he was thin, but had well-defined arm muscles. Hermione was enthralled with the sight of him, a little smile unconsciously playing on her pretty lips. If it weren’t for the redness of her cheeks from the exertion of chasing Draco, Draco would have noticed her blush when he caught Hermione staring. Instead, it was her little smile that gave her away. He smirked and congratulated himself on guessing correctly that him taking off his shirt would have the desired effect on her.

Hermione couldn’t help but be in awe of an almost shirtless Draco; she also couldn’t help comparing the vision before her with her memory of his body from her….encounter….with his body in December. He was considerably thinner, even in his face, she thought, and she frowned. She was pulled from her contemplations by the sound of her name upon Draco’s lips.

“Yes?” she asked, shaking her head a smidge to clear her mind.

“I take it that you don’t like what you see then?” Draco teased, standing in front of her, his hands on his narrow hips, his biceps and pectorals flexed, and his nipples slightly showing through his white shirt.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed hot (well, _hotter_ ). She performed a Cooling Charm on herself and informed Draco in an indifferent attitude, “A Cooling Charm would have worked just as well as removing your shirt, you know.”

Draco smirked. “Not for what I was working to achieve,” he chortled.

“Slimy Slytherin,” Hermione teased. Draco just shrugged and continued to smile wickedly.

“But seriously, Draco, you seem….you need to eat more, Draco. You shouldn’t be missing meals,” Hermione chastised in a worried but nonjudgmental tone.

Draco shrugged again and said hopefully, “Maybe if you brought my meals to me up here then I wouldn’t miss them at all.” He wanted that; mealtimes with Hermione would be more time he’d have her all to himself.

“Maybe,” countered Hermione seriously, although her inflection inferred she was asking rather than instructing, “you should just eat in the Great Hall with the rest of us?”

Draco frowned, not going to argue or be led into a discussion of _why_ he was missing so many meals and not eating in the Great Hall. Instead, he deflected like all Slytherins did when they found themselves in an uncomfortable or disadvantageous situation.

“Tell me, Hermione,” he began as he reclined on the sofa, slouched, legs outstretched, feet crossed at the ankles, and his arms out with his hands behind his head. “How did you know that your choker’s stone had an additional meaning?” he asked knowingly.

Hermione was surprised at the change of topic and at the realization that she hadn’t fooled him in the Hospital Wing after all. Stalling, she leaned her left side onto the back of the sofa and folded her legs to her right side so that she could see him better. Through his body-hugging undershirt she saw that his abdominal muscles were very well defined, and she smiled. _That’s the same as my memory_ , she gleefully thought.

“It was….just obvious,” she stated flippantly, though her expression belied her tone.

_I’m such a bad liar._

“You were awake,” Draco accused, although there was no trace of anger in his tone. Then, quietly, he asked, “What all did you hear, Mione?”

Hermione hesitated for a moment. She wouldn’t lie to him about this, but she was mindful that she needed to control her features and her tone because she didn’t want to embarrass him. She’d learned long ago what an embarrassed Draco Malfoy was like, and, even though lately he had been much less acerbic than in the past, she knew that embarrassment was not something he handled well.

“I think I regained consciousness while you slipped the choker around my neck, so I heard….and felt….everything after that,” she said factually with a small, genuine smile. Draco raised a brow and looked at her sideways, considering this for a few seconds.

“Well, you fooled me that night then, but that was a one-off,” he declared apathetically with a wave of his pale, long-fingered hand.

Hermione raised her eyebrows and smiled and said with a giggle, “You think so?”

Draco nodded as he moved on the sofa to stretch his legs out on its length, placing his feet in her lap. Hermione frowned at his feet before a surprised squeak escaped her as he reached for her folded body and pulled her over his legs in a swift motion, placing her on his thighs, her weight mostly remaining on the back of the sofa while her torso faced him. Hermione’s eyes were wide with surprise and her cheeks were instantly rosy at their intimate position. She looked down in embarrassment, but she loved being cradled in Draco’s arms and eye level with his gorgeous greys and close to his handsome face.

Draco chuckled. “I know so. You are a horrible liar, Mione,” he drawled with a smirk, whispering in her right ear. Hermione shivered.

Draco smirked again. “Are you suddenly cold?” he teased.

“No,” Hermione croaked due to her throat suddenly going dry. She was nervous and playing with her hands awkwardly, not knowing what to do with them while in this exceptionally unfamiliar position and situation. She worked her left arm out of Draco’s arm-hold and rested it on the sofa back. The right hand, she decided, should remain between her and Draco—for now—and so she placed it on his chest. She could feel his heart thumping fast, but probably no faster than her own, she wagered.

Draco’s smirk turned to a genuine, toothy grin at her touch. He forced himself to take a steadying breath. _Slow, Draco, slow,_ he thought. So, slowly, he pulled his mouth from her ear until he could see her eyes. She wasn’t afraid. Although he was nervous—not because he hadn’t snogged many a time with many a girl, but because this girl was HERMIONE—he wasn’t afraid either, so he kissed her cheek.

His lips were soft, and his kiss made her cheek tingle. Her heart was racing and she smiled at the thought, _Draco just kissed me! For Real!_ She didn’t look at him or kiss him back; she was enjoying the moment, letting her eyelids flutter until they closed. Draco pulled back just enough after his kiss to see all of this, and, pleased by what he saw, he did it again. Hermione’s eyes opened in surprise to the repeat touch but quickly fluttered closed again. After a moment, she turned her eyes to look into his again. Her doe-eyed look gave him courage, so he tilted his head and slanted his lips over hers. Her lips met his in a closed mouth kiss that Hermione thought was perfect—for now. Her fingers played on his chest, sweeping with light touches under his collarbone.

Draco’s arms tightened around Hermione and she leaned into him, her bent up knees pressing into his left ribs slightly. Draco didn’t care; the pressure-slash-pain didn’t even register in his mind because he was focused on the kiss. He was letting her direct the duet that was their kiss—the kiss that was banishing away all of his anxiety, all of his fear, all of his self-pity—every thing but thoughts of his Hermione.

 _My Hermione_. _Mione_.

At that thought, he unconsciously murmured, “Mione,” against her lips, breaking their kiss. She sighed and smiled against his lips, and then buried her face in his neck, twisting in his lap so that her knees were no longer poking his ribs and her bum was off of his lap; he was grateful as he realized he had something in his trousers that he didn’t want her to feel. He twisted his hips to mirror her.

She grabbed her wand and performed a non-verbal Enlargement Charm on the small antique sofa; now they could be comfortable and not fear Draco would fall off of the sofa’s front edge.

“You can perform non-verbal spells, can you?” Draco quietly asked.

Hermione nodded with a grin. “Quite a few,” she replied.

“What else can you do, Hermione Granger?” Draco in a slightly breathy voice that gave her butterflies, made her shiver, and made her cheeks red while he reached out for a long strand of her curls and twisted his finger in it.

“Well,” she said, distractedly, non-verbally performing a Warming Charm on herself, though Draco could feel it next to him, “Most everything from our sixth-year texts, plus some from next year. I’m also learning some Healing spells,” she added proudly.

Draco’s lips twitched at her accomplishments. He was no longer jealous of her; he was proud.

Hermione continued. “What I’d really love to learn would be the recording and replaying spells that you created, Draco Malfoy,” she supplicated, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly.

Draco chuckled as he played with her springy curls like he was fascinated. “Alright, Miss Granger,” he said, reluctant though he was to move from their cozy spot. “Get out your wand.”

~

Hermione quickly mastered Draco’s charms. “Brilliant, Draco!” Hermione exclaimed when she successfully performed the first charm, _Musicorum Duplicare Servo_ , which copied the music and instructed the wand to retain the copy inside of itself (the truly genius part, Hermione thought). “It works like a charm,” she said teasingly, to which Draco frowned, not understanding the Muggle phrase. “It’s—” she began to explain.

“Let me guess—a Muggle thing?” Draco said with a smirk and a caress of her curly locks. He couldn’t keep his fingers out of her hair (and Hermione wasn’t complaining one bit).

Hermione quickly learned, and then mastered, the second charm, _Musicorum Evoco_ , which instructed the wand produce the copied music. In doing so, she learned that Draco, too, was capable of non-verbal spells. They began a ‘duel,’ each performing a non-verbal spell to out-do the other’s previous spellwork, and they were laughing uncontrollably by the time their ‘duel’ ended.

Despite the physical activity of the duel, it had become considerably chillier in the Room, so they both summoned (non-verbally, of course) their robes and cloaks before falling back onto the enlarged sofa. They sat side-by-side, but Draco put his arm (his left arm) around her shoulders and drew her in closer. She smiled at the action and didn’t flinch at all at his Dark Mark’ed arm wrapping around her. In response, Draco beamed and breathed in the invigorating, enticing, and exotic coconut scent of her hair. He wished, hoped—hell, he’d even try praying, he surmised—that he could stay like this with her and forget every one and every thing else. He was enjoying the companionable quiet, the warmth she provided, and her coconut scented, silky, curly hair so much that he let his eyes close, just for a moment—but that was all it took for his extremely sleep deprived body to succumb to slumber.

Draco’s limp body against hers alerted Hermione to his unconscious state. She chuckled; despite his completely worn-out appearance, he was still handsome. Laying him down on the sofa and lying next to him was so appealing to her then (even though she was much more hungry than tired), but she resisted the urge.

 _Babies to feed and miles to go before I sleep….and promises to keep, too,_ she thought, thinking of the famous poem by Muggle poet Robert Frost. _Well, babies to feed and books to read before I sleep, anyway,_ she amended her prior thought as she let out a weary sigh, thinking of the revisions she still needed to do before Monday.

Hermione summoned her belongings and transfiguring another carpet into a blanket for Draco. She created a thick, plush Gryffindor-red with Slytherin-green patches and swirls—a rough duplicate of her Bloodstone—and covered her handsome, sweet Slytherin, figuring he’d sleep here all night. Not an option for her, though, she thought, sighing again with annoyance this time; she suspected that there would be two very angry (and worried) boys waiting for her in her Common Room tonight.

“Night, Draco,” she whispered, caressing his soft, pale locks and pushing them off of his pale face as tenderly as she could—like a mother would touch her child—to see his handsome face to at peace. Her heart seemed to slow its beating in sadness at the thought that the only time Draco truly looked at peace was while he slept. “Sweet dreams,” she said before she leaned over him and kissed his cheek. She lingered a moment more before hurrying off to the Great Hall and thinking, _This has been the most brilliant day of my life!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shameless flirting and sensual events ahead (notice that i didn't say 'sexual'?)!   
> and the 'cat comes out of the bag'!  
> a bit of a longer chapter here; lots of dialogue and lots of Draco's inner dialogue!  
> Enjoy!

-March 23, 1997 - April 5, 1997

The next few weeks seemed to be a blur for Draco. He and Hermione spent every available minute together in the Room—Draco, especially, savoring every minute. He was missing more and more lessons and meals (for which Hermione was scolding him more and more), and although he didn’t want to spend time studying, he was grateful for (and more than pleased to eat) the meals she’d bring up to the Room with her for him. He’d coerce her into sitting with him on the enlarged antique sofa (which they’d begun to call ‘Our Sofa’) while they ate, talked, and practiced non-verbal spells, all while cuddling. On particularly difficult days, Draco would ask Hermione to sing to him; Hermione always obliged, but only because she thought Draco was reading a textbook as she sang (he wasn’t).

They either found or transfigured cards and board games to play together, and so (to her dismay) Hermione discovered that Draco loved to play Wizards’ Chess—and he was very good. _It’s that Slytherin cunning,_ she thought and later said to him, and afterwards earned a brilliant Draco smile, which was normally so elusive. They were both very competitive, which they both already knew, of course, but they played well together, both liking to see the other one concentrating and strategizing so intently. Hermione mused once (to herself, obviously) that Draco and Ron—fierce enemies—would make great opponents in Wizards’ Chess for one another, as both were seemingly equally skilled at the game. She giggled at the thought of them having that in common.

When they tired of talking, silently dueling, or playing games, Hermione would try to convince Draco to study with her; he’d always suddenly have a suggestion for something new and fun for them to do. Hermione had a suspicion that these suggestions were premeditated for the purpose of enticing her to shirk her studies (they were). More often than not, Hermione caved.

One such time, Draco told Hermione to close her eyes. She raised a brow at him, but she complied. She heard ‘whoosh’ after ‘whoosh’ until she felt things being placed and draped on her.

“Draco,” she whined as the motion of the dusty objects caused her nose to itch and her to sneeze. Draco adored the way her nose scrunched up and at her tiny, high-pitched sneeze. He grabbed her hand and pulled her along a short distance before saying, “Alright, open your eyes.”

When Hermione opened them, she saw herself in a mirror; she let out a chortle at the sight and at a mischievous-looking Draco, who stood beside her. She looked like she did as a girl when she played dress-up. She had layer upon layer of gaudy, moldy, dusty items, none of which coordinated, on her. Draco had swathed her in several necklaces, a feather boa, several scarves, a shawl, a (probably) medieval sword holder and belt, a blonde flapper-style wig, and a large, gorgeous silver tiara with huge blue gemstones.

“Go on, Granger,” he said bossily while extending his pointer finger at her while it made circles in the air, indicating she should turn around. Hermione laughed at his playfulness, looking in the mirror at her ridiculous reflection as she did as she was bid. When she saw her back, she made an odd gasp-laugh noise.

“Draco!” she hollered, trying to remove the item, which was stuck (really stuck—she figured that he’d probably used a Sticking Charm) to her behind. The item was a large green button that had a picture of a shamrock and said ‘Kiss me. I’m Irish’ on the top and ‘Pinches Allowed Upon Request’ below that. Draco was laughing hysterically as Hermione attempted to remove the button until she saw the futility in it and gave up, choosing instead to remove everything else and throw them at him teasingly. Draco put his hands up to shield his face and continued snickering.

“No, Hermione, don’t take them off—you look so beautiful!”

Even though she knew he was teasing her, Hermione beamed at his complimentary words. She blushed, hoping that one day, Draco would say those words in earnest; but for now, she continued hurling things at him as he dodged her missiles and taunted her throwing ability.

She’d removed everything but the button when Draco ceased defending himself and walked toward her with a swagger and a smirk and a gleam in his eyes that reminded her of McLaggen. Hermione’s eyes widened and she swallowed hard.

“So, Miss Granger,” Draco said, towering over her, forcing her to strain her neck to look up at him. “What will it be? A kiss? Or a pinch?”

Hermione giggled as Draco wagged his eyebrows at her exaggeratedly. _Who knew that Draco Malfoy could be such fun? Who knew he could be playful?_ She thought for just a moment before answering. With her best attempt at a saucy expression, she said, “Why not both?”

She saw Draco’s eyes widen for a split second before he smirked and captured her lips in a kiss, wrapping his left arm behind her back to steady her, and giving her left buttock a pinch with his right hand. She squeaked at his pinch but giggled again.

 _Huh, a_ _giggly Granger_ , thought Draco. _Unexpected….unfamiliar….but definitely not unwelcome._

~

The days passed thusly, until the Easter Holiday. When Hermione found out that Draco wasn’t planning to go home for the holiday, she invited him to go home with her. Draco had been extremely tempted to do so—to take the train to London, be welcomed by Hermione’s parents on the Muggle side of Platform 9 ¾ , and climb merrily into their Muggle car (he hadn’t ever been in one) that would take him to their house where he could stay for the entire week.

He definitely did not want to go to his own home, even to see his mother and his dog, Hunter, both of whom he missed very much while away at school. A recent letter from his mother had informed him that ‘the Dark Lord and his friends’ occupy much of the Manor now. Even if Draco had wanted to visit home, he knew it would have been a very bad, dangerous idea; the Dark Lord had also written to him, ‘suggesting’ that he remain at Hogwarts to mend the cabinet.

When Draco had politely declined Hermione’s offer, mumbling some lame excuse about all of the revisions he was behind on, Hermione had practically begged Draco to go home with her; it hadn’t done any good. They parted when she left Hogwarts for holiday with tension between them. They both were melancholy for days.

~

On one day of the holiday, when her parents were working at their dental office, Hermione went shopping for some maternity skirts and big, belly-hiding blouses for the summer, plus bigger bras; the charms to hide her ever expanding belly and breasts were great, but as they were just illusions, really, they did nothing to make her feel more comfortable in her normal clothes, and clothing extension charms had their limits, too.

Hermione was seventeen weeks pregnant now, and she looked more like twenty, and she was truly beginning to freak out about how big she was. Hugging her parents at King’s Cross Station had been so very awkward; she had been so nervous about them feeling the bump and finding out she was pregnant. Harry had helped Hermione by providing a distraction so that the Grangers would not spend too much time hugging Hermione, but once Harry had left for the Burrow, Hermione was relegated to giving only side hugs, wearing voluminous clothes, and hoping that her pregnancy charms were effective.

By the end of the holiday, Hermione’s parents were none the wiser, and she was a thousand times more thankful for magic than she normally was as it allowed her to keep her secret from them. She had also really enjoyed her holiday with her parents.

Draco, however, had the Vanishing Cabinet, his broom and snitch, a piano and a violin, and virtually no one to talk to for the entire seven days of the Easter Holiday. He was extremely lonely and missing Hermione very much. He worked tirelessly on the cabinet during the holiday, listening to Hermione’s voice singing to him through his wand when it wasn’t performing mending spells on the cabinet. He wrote to Hermione through their charmed journals, and he didn’t care if writing to her every day made him seem desperate. Even if it did, he mused, he knew that she would still think it charming of him and that she would write him back. She did—find it charming and write him back—every day (sometimes more than once a day).

For Draco, listening to her voice and reading her words while imagining her intonation as he read them provided a bit of a reprieve from the loneliness and gloom that otherwise were his constant companions. His failed attempts to complete his mission and his failure to fix the cabinet were taking their toll on him, now more than ever.

When Hermione returned to Hogwarts the Saturday before classes resumed, she had taken the first opportunity to seek out Draco. It wasn’t hard to find him as he was in the Room (as he was ninety-nine percent of the time these days, it seemed to Hermione). She ran into the Room, hollering for him, and after a bit of back and forth hollering, they located one another. Hermione was wearing her school robe over her oversized Muggle clothing, but Draco—Draco was wearing his usual trousers and his Quidditch jersey from last year. The jersey was emerald green with ‘Slytherin’ written on the front. She knew that printed on the back of the jersey was ‘Malfoy’ and the number ‘07.’ He’d grown and matured quite a bit since last year, but with all of the weight loss he’d been experiencing recently, it still fit him; in fact, it was a little loose. However, Hermione’s eyes went wide in appreciation of the image before her. She’d never been a girl who’d chase after athletes or swoon over what boys looked like (much, anyway), but _this_ was a different story. Maybe it was seeing Draco in a color besides black (or very, very dark grey) that had her transfixed, or maybe it was that she’d fantasized about Draco in his Quidditch garb earlier this year and now here he was wearing part of it, no fantasy needed. She didn’t know why, but she did know that she liked it, and she was rewarded with a gorgeous Draco smirk in response to her open-mouthed ogle.

Blushing, she said hello first. Draco nodded and his smirk turned to full-on grin, but he was silent, raising one eyebrow as if bidding her to speak again.

“Were you chasing the snitch?” she said, fiddling with her hands bashfully and tipping her chin to indicate (unnecessarily) her notice of his jersey. She continued to stare, barely registering Draco’s response—a mere shake of his head and a wicked gleam in his eyes. Hermione then asked how his holiday was and if he’d been eating while she was away. Then she told him that she hoped he finished his revisions and essays. Finally, she (very timidly) told him that she’d missed him, but all he did was communicate nonverbally—nodding, smirking, shrugging (but mostly smirking).

“Draco Malfoy! Would you please give up these childish antics?” she asked with a stomp of a foot.

Draco just grinned and shook his head again. Hermione’s eyes narrowed; she knew what he was playing at, and she eventually gave in out of frustration.

“Alright, alright, Malfoy. I’ll play your little game,” she said with a sigh, putting her hands on her hips. “I like your jersey, Draco. You look very….fit and dishy in it,” she acknowledged flippantly and as fast as she could.

Draco immediately responded—with words this time. “Thank you, Mione. I wore it especially to elicit your reaction—very predictable, by the way, Granger—and for this scenario here,” he said with a humongous grin, wagging his finger between the two of them and only pausing to take a breath. “To answer your previous questions: my holiday was shite—excuse my language, but it’s the truth—and I did not eat as much as you would have forced me to, had you’d been here. I did the best I could with my revisions and essays, and—” he stopped to take a breath and then he blushed, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, and said quietly, “I missed you, too, Mione.”

Hermione beamed and blushed, too, her frustration with him melting away as her body temperature rose in response to his sweet admission. Before she could say or do anything, Draco was pulling off his jersey and stalking toward her, preparing it with his hands to be slipped over her head. Hermione laughed nervously and waved him away before she unzipped her robe and shrugged it off; her robe was much too bulky to fit under the jersey.

She was shivering from nervousness; no one had touched her like she anticipated Draco was about to touch her since….well, since the Draco-doppelganger had touched her. In addition, taking her robe off in front of him felt _intimate_ , and even though she wore a bra and a loose jumper under her robe, she was self-conscious of the act. She didn’t dare look at Draco in the eyes; she kept her gaze just under his chin, so she easily noticed his protruding Adam’s Apple bob blatantly. She gulped herself as Draco paused, his arms raised above her head.

 _Am I supposed to take it from him? Is he waiting for me to take off my jumper?_ Hermione shivered more perceptively at that thought and she forced herself to meet Draco’s eyes. His normally soft, grey eyes seemed to Hermione to be shimmering. Her chest tightened, her breathing hitched, and her stomach clenched.

Draco’s eyes may have been glowing with excitement, but the rest of his expression was solemn, as if the implications of his actions were bearing down upon him suddenly. His cheeks pinked furiously, and before Hermione knew it, he had slipped the jersey over her head and was holding one side for her to poke her arm through. Hermione did, staring shyly at Draco’s chest, which was covered with a charcoal grey, lightweight, sophisticated turtleneck sweater—obviously made of a very luxurious material—that hugged his torso. Hermione wanted to reach out and touch it. The silky soft look of the jumper and Draco’s alluring cologne were like an invitation that she very much wanted to accept—but she was too busy sliding her second arm into the jersey to give into temptation.

When the jersey was on both of her arms, Draco paused with his hands gripping the material, but with the backs of his fingers brushing lightly on her ribs under her armpits. The bunched-up jersey lay on Hermione’s breasts, and both she and Draco were very aware of the fact that her larger-than-normal breasts were prominent in this position—and they had been the entire time since Draco began to dress her. Hermione felt her breathing increase, her chest heaving as if she’d just jogged around the Room of Hidden Things, which did nothing to curb Draco’s reaction to the whole situation.

Draco’s breathing seemed to be running a race with Hermione’s. Pure lust shown in Draco’s eyes now (though it was a completely foreign look to Hermione) and they sought out Hermione’s eyes. His searched hers before he averted his gaze back to her chest and tugged slightly on the jersey, pulling her closer to him as he pulled the rest of the jersey over her entire torso. Hermione closed her eyes as she let out a shaky breath. Draco’s chin touched Hermione’s forehead as he let out his own breath he’d been holding in, the warm air moving the wild hairs atop her head.

“You should keep this. It looks rather attractive on you,” he said in a gravelly voice. Hermione blushed and smiled sweetly.

“That sweater looks attractive on you,” she replied in a breathy voice as she placed her hands around Draco’s arms, grasping his triceps, which were flexed and taught.

Hermione fell into a trance. The jersey smelled like Draco; his cologne and his soap and his faint sweat scent all blended together, seducing her senses. A myriad of thoughts flooded her mind. She was wearing a boy’s jersey—a first for her. In the past few years, she’d envisioned wearing Harry and Ron’s jerseys. In those daydreams, the jersey she wore was red and gold, familiar, and belonged to her best friend-turned-boyfriend. THIS, however—THIS was entirely different. For one, it was green and silver—the Slytherin colors—her rival’s, her _enemy’s_ colors—that were adorning her person. Secondly, _This was Draco Malfoy’s jersey for heaven’s sake!_ His name was imprinted on its back, declaring to the world to whom the jersey belonged—declaring to whom _she_ belonged. She shivered again at that thought.

Draco moved his chin against Hermione’s forehead in a sort of a nuzzle, taking in the coconut scent of her hair, realizing that although he hadn’t been aware that he’d missed it the past week, he had, just as much as he’d missed her eyes and her smile and her friendship and her singing, and….HER. Simply, her. He continued nuzzling her, turning his cheek to her forehead next and looking down at Hermione’s front.

Draco’s jersey was fitted, and over Hermione’s large jumper, it was….clingy. It made her breasts prominent still, even more so as he tugged down on the bottom hem where his fingers lingered. The jersey bunched up the sweater underneath, Draco noticed, and so, out of an inborn desire to perfect the imperfect, he tugged down on Hermione’s sweater to smooth it.

His resolve to behave suddenly forgotten, he then slid his large hands, fingers splayed, underneath the sweater onto Hermione’s silky smooth skin. His hands caressed her waist at her sides with little movements of the pads of his fingers before moving them closer to each other. Draco’s head then moved from Hermione’s, his gaze falling to her face. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed to miss the contact of his warm cheeks and breath so close to her because she leaned into Draco’s body, tilting her head up and resting it on his chest, causing her spine to straighten and her hips to also tilt into Draco’s grip. Hermione let out a tiny ‘hmmm’ sound. Draco smiled at her vocal sign of pleasure and let out his own breath of contentment in response; it had been a long time since he’d been this intimate with a girl, and never had he felt this way about any of the girls he’d previously touched like this. Draco moved his palms and splayed fingers over Hermione’s abdomen, his fingers roaming her lower abdomen….her protruding, round, and firm abdomen.

And then he knew.

Draco sucked in a quick breath as his eyes flashed opened, staring at nothing in particular. His large, long-fingered hands, starting to perspire in his body’s adrenaline-fueled state, encircled the bump, and Draco felt his chest constrict and his heart bang so wildly within it that he feared it would give away the secret of his discovery to Hermione.

He didn’t know what to do or what to say. Neither did he know how to feel; so he just thought. The child inside of her must be a secret—a well-kept one—because if not, he would have heard about it; there was no way that news like this about the ‘Gryffindor Golden Girl’ wouldn’t have spread throughout the school like Fiendfyre. Furthermore, Draco surmised, for Hermione to have kept hidden the very obvious physical proof of her pregnancy from him for over a month, she was skilled at it, which made him subsequently wonder exactly how long she’d been hiding it in totality.

_How big do pregnant bellies and newborn babies get, anyway?_

Draco could get no answers from his palpation of Hermione’s abdomen, he knew; he had no clue about how to differentiate an ‘early pregnancy bump’ from a ‘ready-to-pop pregnancy bump,’ let alone make a guess about how many months pregnant Hermione was. _So,_ Draco reasoned _, the child inside of her could be ‘new’ or ‘ready to be born._ He recalled (from where he knew not) that pregnancies are nine months in duration _. That would be…._ He frantically ran the calculation in his head. _July! Summer holiday, when I was supposed to be meticulously following her and guarding her!_ Regret washed over him like a flood; he could have prevented this!

A voice in the back of his mind (w _as that suppressed rationality speaking?)_ told him that he could not have prevented it—that he’d had no better odds of preventing it in the summer than he’d had in December when Hermione had been raped. Calming down—slightly—he began to think about this rationally again. 

_It would most likely be some Muggle bloke’s baby, then, if it were made in the Summer Holiday._ After all, Hermione had asked him to spread the word (in response to his own fabricated bet) that she’d had a Muggle boyfriend and that they had ‘been together’! Draco recalled that not once, though, had he seen Hermione with any guy that summer. He’d seen quite a few teenaged blokes attempting to chat her up, but that had been the extent. Nevertheless, he thought with a sigh, the child could be a Muggle’s.

Then a dreadful notion came to mind: _It could be The Weasel’s or Bloody Potter’s_! For the first time, in all of his time with Hermione, Draco panicked. _Weasley’s or Potter’s?_ Draco internally screamed in despair. His panic escalated immensely, and his imagination took off wildly with it. If one of them were her baby’s father, then Hermione would surely chuck him! He imagined her breaking the news to him, informing him of her decision to be with one of her best friends, callously ditching him, laughing at him, and taunting him: _‘You think I would stay with you, a Death Eater, when I could be with the Chosen One? What are you compared to Harry Potter?’ *_

But that scenario begged the question: _Why is she still here with me if she is having the baby of The Boy Who Lived or the boy she fancied before me?_ He thought of how noble Hermione always was, and he realized that she would not knowingly keep her child from its father. His rage and jealousy and the tenseness of his jaw decreased markedly at the realization.

 _The child isn’t bloody Weasley’s or Potter’s_ , he thought with relief. It could be _any Wizard’s_ child, though, for all he and Hermione knew; the identity of her rapist was still unknown, he thought agitatedly. None of his inquiries among his Housemates about blokes using Polyjuice Potion or raping girls had produced any information. He still had his suspicions—and he did know with certainty that two of his fellow Slytherins were on the juice in December—but as a result of all of Draco’s time being demanded by his task or spent in pleasure with Hermione, the suspicions of the actual rapist were still just that.

 _Well, THAT is going to have to change, and soon,_ he thought bitterly. He had to find out who had raped Hermione, especially if that bloke is the father of her baby.

Draco’s jaw clenched at that thought. _Damn the Dark Lord and his tasks!_ he cursed internally, a nasty sneer appearing on his face. He would already know whose seed was proliferating inside of Hermione right now if he’d been able to devote time to it instead of meddling with the blasted Cabinet!

In his hands— _embraced by his hands_ —was that which he was certain was the product of Hermione’s rape. _It had to be_ , he told himself. The alternative was not acceptable; he would not allow his mind to even consider any other possibility. The mere _notion_ that Hermione had been intimate with anyone infuriated him—not that he blamed her for being raped—he most assuredly did not. His stomach was tying up in knots just thinking about this!

Even though he’d had strong physical feelings for Hermione for weeks, Draco had not been bothered by the fact that he and Hermione hadn’t had sex. He had committed himself to remaining a virgin until marriage, anyway; besides that, he’d known that neither of them was truly ready for that step. Still….now, for some unknown reason, the thought of Hermione having had sex— _willingly_ —with someone other than him was making him very hot under the collar (and not in a good way!). The thought that Hermione had been _impregnated_ by someone other than him was making him furious. The possessiveness that he felt for her at the moment was staggering; just not more so than the fury.

So, in Draco’s angry and possessive mind dedicated to self-preservation, the conception had to have occurred from her rape….from sex in which Hermione had seen HIM, thought that it was HIM, had memories of HIM and the two of them, together. Imagining anything else started to make him sick. Hermione— _HIS Hermione_ —would not have been intimate with anyone else besides her rapist, the guy who had appeared to Hermione to be Draco—or so he tried to convince himself. 

_Would she have been, though?_ a little voice taunted.

Despite all of Hermione’s denials about her being involved with anyone before him this year, that little voice had got to him, and he had to wonder: _Had she been sexually intimate with a guy before her rape or after it—before the two of them had formed their own attachment?_ Draco closed and scrunched up his eyes and frowned deeply, trying to expel the unwelcome thought, but, like a weed, it had taken root and it was not easily plucked out.

Panic, jealousy, and despair overwhelmed Draco then, so much so that he felt lightheaded. He forced his eyes open in an attempt to steady himself, determined to focus on something tangible before he collapsed with Hermione—and her baby—underneath him. He lowered his head and his gaze to where his hands rested, caressing Hermione’s smooth skin and the evidence of her pregnancy. He saw his green Slytherin jersey, which covered his hands—and HIS witch’s body He saw his jersey, which covered the baby growing inside of HIS witch.

He heaved an aggravated sigh as he thought that just a very short time ago, the vision and notion of Hermione in his jersey….with HIS name on her, like a ‘This Witch Belongs To Draco Malfoy’ sign for all to see….had not been something he would have relished. Now, though, it was a fantasy-come-true; after having a fairly naughty dream that had continued during his waking hours as a fantasy, Draco had found the jersey buried in the bottom of his trunk during the break. The idea of Hermione in his jersey began as just physical, sexual, but as his daydreaming continued, he started to feel something deeper about the idea of Hermione in HIS jersey. It had stirred in him something (that he couldn’t put a name to) that left him feeling like nothing else had before.

The second he saw Hermione in his jersey, he felt like he had earned something (for once) that was just his. His prize was something that was worth more than anything in the world. He felt like he’d done something right, for once. And for one fleeting moment, that feeling, that reassurance, had been like an ember growing inside of him and burning away every nasty thing he’d ever seen or done or known.

Now, that moment was gone, and all of his aguish had returned. Hermione was pregnant. And he was fretful—and woeful and afraid—for himself and for Hermione. He was sure that studious, intelligent, ambitious, and practical Hermione, who always so prim and proper (when she wasn’t yelling at and _slapping_ fellows, that is), had not intended to be a pregnant teen. He was sure that she had been saddled with her pregnancy like Draco had been saddled with his tasks, and neither one of them deserved the burdens that had been forced upon them. They were still so young. Hermione was so innocent. Draco’s only obligation should be to his studies and his free time should be spent playing Quidditch; Hermione’s biggest worry should be her friends finding out she was dating their enemy and her only responsibility should be her studies. Hermione should have never had to suffer rape, and he shouldn’t have to become a murderer. 

So lost in these thoughts was Draco that he didn’t realize he was crying. Hermione moving her head from his chest brought him back to the world around him, and when he looked at her, she was peering up at him, biting her lip. He saw tears in her wide eyes, welled up and ready to fall even as his own were dropping off his cheeks.

Her first tear fell, and Draco drew both of his hands up off of her bump to wipe it away before wiping at his own embarrassing tears. He tilted his head questioningly, but she remained silent—and looked fearful.

Hermione let her head fall to look at herself in his jersey; wearing it was heavenly (albeit surreal), but she had yet to actually see herself in it. It was long on her and loose ( _for now,_ she thought). It wouldn’t be too much longer that this jersey with _Malfoy_ emblazoned on it would fit her no longer—just like her relationship with Draco, she thought morosely. Just moments ago, she realized that Draco’s hands had been caressing her bump and that he most likely knew her secret.

“You….you look beautiful,” Draco said, looking down and indicating the jersey that adorned Hermione’s torso. He couldn’t see the bump—the concealment charm was working its magic—and Draco truly did think that her form in his shirt was beautiful. As he pictured her form heavily pregnant in his jersey, however, he felt an odd feeling he couldn’t name. It certainly wasn’t revulsion. Was it want? Was it that he was so turned on by her in his jersey that even her in his jersey _pregnant_ (and with another bloke’s baby, to boot) he still wanted her?

Hermione let out a doubting laugh and sniffed. “I’m a mess,” she whined. Draco couldn’t know it, of course, but she was thinking that her current physical appearance and emotional state and her WHOLE LIFE amounted to a complete and utter mess.

Hearing him say she was beautiful had not been what she’d expected. What she’d expected was anger on his face where she only now saw tears. What was he feeling, then? Hurt? Betrayal?

“You look perfect,” he whispered. “Even when you cry, you’re beautiful, Mione.”

Draco whisked away another tear falling from Hermione’s face as she gave a laugh-like cry before she whispered, “Thanks.” She instinctively leaned into his hand and brought her hand up to cup his on her cheek.

“Draco….why are you….crying?” she asked timidly. “Regretting putting your jersey on me?” she quickly added, only half-joking and trying to diffuse Draco’s melancholic feelings.

He was silent for a minute, trying to compose himself, for one, and trying to decide what the _bloody hell_ he should say, for another. He shook his head slightly, his pale pink lips with the most adorable cupid’s bow Hermione thought she was ever likely to see parted slightly. Draco’s pale grey eyes roamed her face and her body once more, causing Hermione to blush hard even in her state of wariness and confusion.

“I….” he started before he cleared his throat. “I have a great deal that I regret, but….this,” he said as he used one hand to pinch the arm of the jersey, “and this,” he added as he caressed her cheek and tilted her face up, “I don’t regret.”

And he kissed her, tenderly but unreservedly at the same time. He sucked on her bottom lip after a moment and moved his free hand to her hip, gently pulling her close. He slowly raised his head while kissing her, their mouths and tongues never parting. In response, Hermione stood up on her toes (just the response that Draco was hoping to elicit) and wrapped her hands around his neck, fingers playing with his hair. Draco pulled her closer still, her breasts and her bump pressing into him, his hands both low on her back now, thumbs massaging either side of her spine softly as the fingers splayed out, just resting at the top of her bum. He didn’t dare push his luck by sliding his hands lower (even though he wanted to).

Hermione’s back was arching back and she could feel—literally—how much Draco was enjoying this; she gasped in surprise, breaking their kiss. Draco took the opportunity to express his pleasure at the sensation of her pressed against him with a throaty sigh. Brown eyes met grey while they caught their breaths, and Draco’s never left Hermione’s. More than he _wanted_ to, he _needed_ to, touch her skin; whether it was pure lusty desire or an attempt to build up his confidence to say something to her (or both), he wasn’t sure—nor did he really care. As he slithered his right arm around her waist, gripping her right hip with it, he slid his left hand under her shirts and up to brush the bottom of her ribs as his lips seized hers again.

He stopped himself there, however, even though it took ever fiber of his being. There was so much that he wanted to do. Badly. Above all, though, Draco did not want to do anything that would make her feel uncomfortable or unsafe. After all, he still could indulge in his desires through his fantasies as he’d been doing for weeks already.

Putting his desires aside for the time being, he committed himself to the chivalrous thing ( _Bloody hell, I’m becoming a Gryffindor)_ —that being to assuage Hermione’s doubts and fears. He’d realized what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. 

Engaging Hermione in a bold kiss, he put a minute amount of space between their lower halves in one second, and in another second he slithered his hand down to the swell of her abdomen, fingers splayed wide.

Hermione stilled in his arms, and Draco felt her inhale sharply. Breaking the contact between their lips (hers looked _bloody fantastic_ , he thought), he inhaled, too, and rested his forehead on hers before he said quickly, “You are beautiful—mind and body.” He quivered as he said ‘body’—he had completely lewd images racing through his mind at that moment. “Your….points and your….curves,” he explained, as he emphasized that he was referring to her bump by giving it a gentle squeeze.

 _He DOES know!_ Hermione’s eyes flashed open in complete surprise as she let out a breath she’d been tensely holding in. Her brown doe eyes searched his face and saw the exact opposite of what she’d expected to see; his gorgeous grey eyes held only sincerity and compassion. Draco continued.

“Technically, though, I haven’t ever _seen_ this one—what have you been using—a glamour charm of some sort?—but I’m sure you look beautiful with child, and….if you wanted to talk about it or….show it to me, I’d….like that.”

She started to cry more fervently, but she was so relieved by Draco’s actions and words, that she decided that it must be the result of the pregnancy hormones. _Drat these hormones_! “I’m sorry I’m crying. I—it’s the hormones, I guess—you know, from….being….pregnant.” Just saying it out loud caused her shoulders to relax as the tension fell off of her like the tears running down her cheek. “Fair warning,” she said, attempting a joke through her tears, “there will be a lot of this over the next few months.”

Draco then said quietly, “You are planning to go through with this pregnancy, then?”

Hermione was startled and her chest constricted sharply at the sudden change in tone of their conversation—it had been going so well!

She swallowed hard as tears stung her eyes and she released him from her grip and removed his hands from her body.

“I….” Hermione began, but ending up at a loss. In the few minutes since she suspected Draco knew her secret, she’d been hopeful that Draco’s knowledge of the truth wouldn’t be the end of them.

 _Clearly, that hope was unfounded,_ she thought. _What a fool I’ve been! He’s not going to support me in this—and I can’t explain about the Prophecy!_

Hermione took a step back from him.

_If this is indeed the end of us—if he’s going to be a right foul git about this—then I owe him no explanation! I owe him nothing!_

As Hermione finished her thoughts, she began peeling the jersey off of herself. She had both arms out of the garment when Draco spoke.

“Wait—Granger—what are you doing?” he said, brows furrowed.

 _Granger, again, huh?_ she thought. _Yes, quite the fool I am_.

“As I’m certain you don’t intend for me to keep this, here you are,” she said primly as she thrust it at his chest. “I need to get back to Gryffindor Tower,” she explained as she took a few more steps backward.

Hermione pretended not to notice the hurt and confusion on his face and added, in a childish bit of pettiness, “ _Harry and Ron_ will be missing me.” She then turned on her heel and strode away.

She made it roughly five steps before Draco’s arms encircled her from behind, bringing her to a stop. Peeking down to where Draco’s arms held her, she saw that the jersey was balled up in his tight fist, the knuckles white. Her chest was heaving—the adrenaline of her angry state making her breathing rapid—and she could barely breath, let alone speak. “Unhand me this instant, Malfoy,” she ground out in a deceptively calm tone.

“No. No, _Hermione_ ,” he said firmly in her ear. “I don’t want you to go. I was without you all holiday. I’m not going to let you go now.”

~

_*text taken from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, by J.K. Rowling._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a continuation of drama from ch 8. Italicized portion at the beginning is the end of ch 8.

-April 5, 1997

The Room of Requirement (continued)

_“Wait—Granger—what are you doing?” he said, brows furrowed._

_Granger, again, huh? she thought. Yes, quite the fool I am._

_“As I’m certain you don’t intend for me to keep this, here you are,” she said primly as she thrust it at his chest. “I need to get back to Gryffindor Tower,” she explained as she took a few more steps backward._

_Hermione pretended not to notice the hurt and confusion on his face and added, in a childish bit of pettiness, “Harry and Ronwill be missing me.” She then turned on her heel and strode away._

_She made it roughly five steps before Draco’s arms encircled her from behind, bringing her to a stop. Peeking down to where Draco’s arms held her, she saw that the jersey was balled up in his tight fist, the knuckles white. Her chest was heaving—the adrenaline of her angry state making her breathing rapid—and she could barely breath, let alone speak. “Unhand me this instant, Malfoy,” she ground out in a deceptively calm tone._

_“No. No, Hermione,” he said firmly in her ear. “I don’t want you to go. I was without you all holiday. I’m not going to let you go now.”_

_Hermione was not afraid of him, but she was afraid of bursting into tears, bawling like a baby in front of him. She said nothing and held in her tears._

_“Hermione….stay with me? Mione….please? I need you here….with me.”_

_Hermione felt her heart—and her resolve—break at that declaration, and she wasn’t much bothered by his arms caging her in anymore. But still, she couldn’t just pretend he had not asked her to abort the babies, could she?_

_He didn’t say it like that,_ a voice in her head pointed out to her.

 _That was blatantly his intent, wasn’t it?_ she argued back, but feeling less sure of herself now.

She truly wanted to stay. Her heart was telling her to stay. But she’d read something once that had stuck: _The heart is deceitful above all else._ Staying now could cause pain later. Already in pain now, she may as well make it worth it, she rationalized.

“And this pregnancy, Draco?” she asked in a defeated tone, internally wincing in preparation for him to say out loud what his opinion of her pregnancy was. Draco was quiet for a long moment.

“What about it?” he asked.

Hermione made a throaty noise of agitation. “What would you have me do about it?” she snapped.

“It is not my place to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, Hermione,” he said calmly but as if he were struggling to say it.

“You’re correct. It’s not your place,” Hermione said haughtily. Draco’s grip on her did not loosen as Hermione had thought it would.

“If you want my opinion, I’ll give it,” Draco said weakly another long moment later.

Hermione paused. For all that his opinion wouldn’t change anything, she felt compelled to show him the courtesy of listening to it. Plus, she was curious. “What is your opinion, then?” she said, trying to put on a façade of indifference, when really, inside, she was quaking with nervousness.

“I think that you should not terminate your pregnancy,” he said firmly.

Hermione was speechless and her breath hitched. She relaxed in Draco’s hold and closed her eyes in relief.

 _Yeah, but,_ a little voice inside her said, _by no means does that equate any willingness of his to keep seeing you in the coming months as the evidence of your pregnancy only increases._

_So true._

During Hermione’s inner monologue, Draco had released his grip on her, as she was no longer tense and poised to make a break for it, but he had stealthily moved in front of her, grasping for her hands and holding them tight.

He was silent for a moment before he said, “It’s your choice, of course, Mione, but—” Draco paused for a moment to take a steadying breath, “I’ve seen what it does to a woman when she does terminate, even when her pregnancy was caused by rape….which I’m assuming yours was….hoping it was, actually—I hope that doesn’t make me seem like a monster—please don’t take it the wrong way!”

“I will not be terminating,” she said quietly.

He nodded, and she stayed quiet, contemplative. She almost couldn’t believe him and his words and the sincerity in which he spoke. Her head was flooded with thoughts after his statement—and the others he’d made tonight. He’d said she was beautiful, bump and all. And he’d said that he needed her! Even still, she had to be certain—now. If there were a chance that Draco would bail on their relationship because of her pregnancy, tonight or tomorrow or later on, then she needed to know now—he needed to do it now or she’d just be hurt more later.

She maintained her façade, staring at his chest, not his eyes, and said quietly, trying desperately to keep the emotion out of her voice, “Draco, I need to know now if….if my pregnancy is something you can accept. Have you already or will you later change your mind about _us_? I—” Hermione’s voice cracked and she cleared her throat of the thick lump that had formed there.

Draco interrupted her. “I accept it,” he said quickly and quietly.

Hermione’s eyes shot up to his as he moved his hands to her bump, gripping it over her jumper. “ _This_ ,” he emphasized with a slight squeeze, “doesn’t change things for me, Mione. I accept it, just as you accept my Mark.” He then spoke in a firmer tone than before. “As much as I wish my Mark would disappear, I don’t feel that way about your pregnancy—or you. I—I don’t want to lose you, Mione,” he admitted, his tone desperate and quiet at the end and his expression fretful. “I can’t.”

In his eyes, Hermione saw the most sincerity that she had ever seen in them or in anyone’s eyes, for that matter. Hermione’s heart swelled and she felt a fluttering in her stomach. No one had ever said anything so sincere and sweet to her. It made her feel warm and dizzy and giddy, and she couldn’t stop a smile from gracing her face.

“You know, Draco Malfoy, you certainly have a way with words,” she said shyly and with a small laugh.

“I’ve always had a way with words,” he said with pomp. “However, you wouldn’t have known it because of the way I’ve spoken to you over the last six years of our acquaintance,” he finished in a regretful manner. He was silent, and so was Hermione; she communicated her feelings by giving his hands a squeeze, which seemed to bolster his confidence.

“Will you please come with me to our sofa? You don’t have to stay all night—just for a bit….please?” Draco asked, as close to begging as Hermione had ever seen him. She smiled at him and nodded.

“I’ll stay, Draco.” She felt his hands relax on her bump and heard him expel a large breath.

“Well, then,” he began before a haughty, faux clearing of his throat, “Come along, _preggers_ ,” he said, flashing her his charming Malfoy smile as he held out his arm for her to take (which she did), enjoying the moment with his girl. “Let’s stroll through all of this rubbish and find our sofa, shall we? Oh, and Miss Granger?” he added, smirking and stopping his feet suddenly.

Hermione raised a brow.

“Put this back on, and please, wear it always?” he said, handing her his jersey.

Hermione rewarded him for his playfulness and charm and his gift with a brilliant smile. She then put the Malfoy jersey on, feeling giddy at the look of approval she saw in Draco’s eyes and at his arrogant smirk.

“I think you may have something of a fetish for seeing me wearing things you give me, Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione teased back, fingering her choker.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Draco said huskily but trying to reign in his emotions lest they run away with him—and take Hermione with them.

Holding Hermione’s hand tightly, Draco quickly led her through the stacks of forgotten things to ‘their sofa’ and then summoned some blankets and pillows. He was exhausted from all of his waking hours being spent working on the cabinet, and he had no intention of letting Hermione sleep any where but next to him tonight.

Draco threw himself onto the extended antique, brocaded sofa, Hermione sitting to face him with her legs folded under her, her bump prominent.

“Thank you for your jersey and for making me feel….beautiful,” Hermione said and blushed. “And for telling me so.”

Draco nodded and his lips turned up slightly in a miniscule smile. Then he said genuinely and solemnly, “I meant every word.” She smiled and he melted; that seemed to be the way of things between them.

“Thank you for staying with me….and for trusting me,” he said bashfully.

“You’re welcome, Draco,” Hermione whispered. She then gripped the bottom hems of the jersey and the sweater underneath and pulled both shirts up to expose her belly.

Draco stared. Hermione reached for his closest hand and brought it to her belly, tentatively. She wasn’t sure that he wanted to touch her—it—them—again.

However, her apprehension was unfounded, she saw immediately. Draco looked as if he were fascinated; he really was, as he’d never seen a pregnant woman’s naked bump before (he’d never paid attention to any pregnant woman, really). Moreover, he was touching _and_ _seeing_ Hermione’s naked stomach for the first time. It was quite a delight for the sixteen year old, even if the bare abdomen his eyes were feasting on was a pregnant one. He didn’t care that it was a pregnant belly; it was Hermione’s naked belly, which made it a satisfactory experience. So many thoughts were racing through his mind; some he wouldn’t dare voice.

Hermione beamed with happiness at Draco’s reaction. She really did have a cute bump, she thought and internally smirked. She was naturally slim, her abdominal muscle was taught, and her belly had no discernable fat.

This was her first time exposing herself to a boy (well, the second, but the first didn’t count), and so she was nervous. At the same time, though, she was giddy—the relief she felt in Draco knowing about her pregnancy, coupled with his unexpected response upon discovering it, elicited her giddiness. She was thoroughly enjoying the attention Draco was lavishing on her; this time (unlike a few minutes ago) she was paying attention to every detail of it.

She knew it was absolutely barmy to be pretending as though she and Draco were a happy couple expecting a child together, but she was going to indulge in that fallacy. After all, Hermione’s life didn’t include many delusions. Had she ever, since attending Hogwarts, been able to permit herself such a luxury? 

Hermione bit her lip after a while, unsure of what to say and waiting for Draco to say something. Draco was quiet, but he adjusted his position to get closer to her. He put a leg on either side of her and scooted up as far as the position would allow before he put both hands on her belly, stroking it with the fleshy parts of his fingers. It tickled, so Hermione let out a little giggle, which tightened her abdominals. Draco smiled and flicked his eyes to hers before once again staring at the bump.

Hermione sat there, watching, enjoying, and, eventually, weighing her options—imagining scenarios in which she told Draco that her pregnancy was part of a prophecy. The _want_ was there, but the _can’t_ overrode that desire. Instead, she decided to trust him with other truths—ones that were not so implausible and that were less important in the grand scheme of things.

“Um, just so you know….my pregnancy _is_ the result of the rape. I….hadn’t—haven’t….ugghh,” Hermione hawed.

 _Oh, grow up, Hermione, just say it!_ she chastised herself mentally.

So much in his own head as he was, Draco almost didn’t comprehend her words (not that they were well-articulated to begin with), but he blinked a few times and then they registered. What Hermione was trying to say easily dawned on Draco. _She hadn’t ever been with a bloke before her rape, and that bloke just happened to look like me! Her memories of her first time are of me!_

He couldn’t get much luckier, he thought. He looked from her bump to her eyes and back again in excitement. He was somewhat surprised, but immensely relieved, until—until the implications of Hermione’s statement truly sunk in.

Relief and giddiness soon gave way to unpleasant emotions. His hands stilled on her swell, as his gaze shot up to her face once more. Her very first time, she’d been forced! He felt queasy at the thought. He passed his hands over his eyes in a small display of despair. For clarification, in the unlikely event that he had surmised incorrectly, he croakily asked, “Your first time was a rape?”

Hermione nodded. “Yeah,” she whispered. She added quickly, trying to be reassuring, “But is wasn’t horrible. I mean, rape is—”

“Despicable,” Draco interjected, looking up at her face, a familiar, nasty sneer on his. Hermione couldn’t help but be taken aback.

“Yes, of course!” Hermione agreed, her heart swelling at the force in his voice with which he declared his sentiment on the subject. “But whomever _he_ was, he used a love potion on me, and so every thing I do remember was….quite good. My memories of my first time, even though it was rape, are….pleasant, so….I’m ok with it.”

Draco’s eyebrows raised sharply at her statement.

“I meant—sorry—I meant that I’ve made peace with what happened—and with the pregnancy.”

Draco looked back down at her bump, but his fists lay balled in his lap. He was so conflicted; his feelings now were so ambivalent. She’d been raped—horrible. She’d enjoyed her first time—appropriate. She’d enjoyed the sex with a guy who looked like him, but wasn’t him—was that good for him or not? Either way, he was jealous and he was hurt (which he felt ridiculous over), as if he’d been cheated out of something—hadn’t he been, though? He’d been cheated out of her first time—not that he presumed that her first time would have been with him, but—but it could have been! They could have given one another their firsts, but instead, some other bloke took that from them. And he’d made her enjoy it. Now, Draco was angry. His emotions were uncharacteristically flitting across his face, and Hermione read them like a book.

“Draco,” she said gently, putting her hands on his knees, which abutted each of her own, and squeezing them, effectively bringing him out of his thoughts as she had intended. “Draco, the point I wanted to impress upon you is that I’ve only been with one guy—ever—and, honestly….the fact that I see _your face_ when I think of it, well….” Hermione said, blushing and flustered.

Draco nodded, taking a minute to absorb it all. _Well, that effectively alters my feelings about this whole thing a bit_ , he thought, his lips turning up a bit, his spirits lifting. His heartbeat was fast now out of contentment not resentment, though he was still angry to a degree. _I am going to find that raping bastard and make him pay_ , he thought.

They were silent for a few minutes. Draco’s hands inched back to the bump.

“Hermione….Who else knows that you were raped and that you’re pregnant?”

Hermione replied hesitantly, as she knew he’d be upset with her answer. “Madam Pomfrey, Professor Dumbledore, and….Harry.”

Draco scoffed but gave no other response for what seemed like minutes to Hermione. He was brooding, she could tell, but she figured that she should let him brood—for now.

Finally, he ground out, “Why _Potter_?”

Hermione was expecting that. _At least this is a truth that I don’t need to keep secret._ “He was the one to find me after the rape, and he’s my best friend.” She was well aware of the fact that she was nearing dangerous territory here; their respective friends were a taboo topic. “I know how you feel about him, and I know we agreed not to speak about him, but….I want to be honest with you. When I told him—that day on the train—I had no one else to confide in, and I needed to have that. I needed the support of my best friend.”

Hermione saw that Draco accepted this answer—and that he even looked a little….guilty. “Even so,” he said arrogantly, and then paused, looking back to Hermione’s tiny swell. _“Potter?”_ he whined. Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.

“Why Dumbledore?” he asked a minute later, with much less venom than with which he’d asked about Harry, although he was still brooding.

Hermione internally cringed; she _really_ hadn’t thought her answer through. Dumbledore knew because, well, he is who he is, but also because of the Prophecy—yet another taboo topic (in present company, that is, though for a much different reason).

Now it was her turn to be silent—and outwardly, she was, but in her mind she was half berating herself and half trying to invent a lie—or, more specifically, phrase the truth so it wasn’t the whole truth. Again.

“Pomfrey told him; apparently it’s required that he, as Headmaster, be notified of such things—and even more so because the rape happened on school grounds,” she said smoothly. _Almost not a lie at all._

Draco just looked at her blankly for a few seconds, then nodded.

Once more, silence fell.

“Hermione,” Draco began, timidly, “These days….it’s not the safest of times, as you know. I think that the prudent course of action is the one you have already taken—keeping your pregnancy a secret. Hiding it from every one who doesn’t already know is the best way to ensure the child’s safety,” Draco said as he tilted his head to her bump, “….and yours.”

Hermione suddenly had a frog in her throat. After she cleared it, she said, “I agree.”

“Will Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and Potter keep your secret—have they kept it?” Draco asked agitatedly.

Hermione nodded. “Yes….they all know it’s meant to be a secret. Thank you, for….caring.” And she meant it, despite wondering why he had felt it necessary to broach the subject at all. She shifted slightly where she sat on her legs.

“Does it hurt you?” Draco asked shyly. “The child, I mean?” he added, flustered. “I mean….does it hurt to have it inside of you?”

Hermione smiled at his awkwardness and innocence. She shook her head. “No, not at all. I really don’t even feel anything in there. I read that I may be uncomfortable—quite uncomfortable, eventually—and that the babies’ kicks may hurt toward the end, too.” She frowned. Then, with a tiny laugh, she added, “I do have to urinate more often, and I had horrible morning sickness! You were there when I upchucked on McLaggen—remember?”

Draco laughed and nodded. “Oh, I remember. How could I forget—it was brilliant! I was chuffed to see that wanker get puked on! I don’t imagine he’ll be forgetting that, either,” he said with a satisfied look on his pointed face.

Hermione groaned into her hands. “Ugh. It was absolutely mortifying! He’s been ignoring me ever since, though, so I suppose it was well worth it.”

Draco looked smug at that, she noticed, apparently glad that McLaggen wasn’t trying to date her anymore.

“I never liked him, you know,” Hermione said quietly, secretly pleased to see this bit of possessiveness that Draco displayed over her.

“Jolly good. He’s a git,” said Draco pompously and raising his chin arrogantly. “I knew the Brightest Witch of Our Age wouldn’t really be serious about the likes of him.” As he spoke, Draco’s fingers moved to her sides, but his thumbs pointed up and slid up, too, barely swiping the bottom of her rib cage and hiding under the ruched up fabric of his jersey, but below Hermione’s bra. His eyes had traveled up from her belly, and, for once, remained there. He had never let his eyes linger there before (to Hermione’s knowledge, anyway).

Hermione blushed furiously and felt heat creeping up her neck and making her ears hot. Knowing that Draco was admiring her breasts, swathed in Slytherin green, made a shiver ripple through her. Normally, she would have bristled with indignation and lecture the offender in this situation; but, right now, she was very pleased at the lusty way Draco reacted to her body. She decided to overlook any lewdness that Draco, her _boyfriend_ , directed to her as long as he just _looked_.

When Draco finally looked up at her face—and realized he’d been caught—he rapidly drew his hands back to the front of the bump and looked away nervously for a moment before his eyes met hers again. He cleared his throat and blushed furiously. The tinge of red looked handsome on him, and it made Hermione smirk; after all, it wasn’t every day one had the chance to see Draco Malfoy blush.

“In pregnancy, many things, um, get….bigger,” she said, taking her turn to blush. Draco simply nodded and moved to sit in a cross-legged position opposite her. He summoned a blanket and then placed it over his lap.

Hermione stifled a giggle and then she, too, moved off of her legs into the same sitting position in front of him. She used nonverbal magic to remove the sweater she was wearing under the jersey. She was getting a tad too warm from all of the lustiness—and her nervousness. The silky, green fabric of the jersey was cool against her skin and let her body heat escape. Plus, the silkiness and the slinkiness of it made her feel beautiful (which it, in fact, did—not that she noticed, although Draco did). She left the bump exposed.

Draco reached out for her bump. He stared at it and drew random shapes on it. When he found his voice again, he asked, “How….uh….” He blushed again.

“You want to know _how_ big the…. _bump_ will get?” she asked with raised eyebrows, emphasizing the fact that she knew he was probably wondering how much larger _every thing_ would get. “Or _how_ long I have left to be pregnant?”

Draco nodded and said, “Yes, to both.” His face and neck were _red_.

Hermione took her time. “Well, I’m not quite halfway through the pregnancy, which will end in early September, so I have about twenty weeks left of being the home for these little ones,” she revealed intentionally, poking at her bump as she did so.

Draco’s eyes shot back up to her own. “There’s more than one in there?” Draco blurted out incredulously. Hermione giggled.

“Yes, two, actually,” she said in a lilting tone, amused, now resting her hands back on her abdomen. When her hand brushed Draco’s, he grabbed it and held it under his own, rubbing it with the pad of his thumbs and never breaking their eye contact.

“As for the state of my _….curves_ ….” she teased, smirking (finding that being playfully teasing helped her get through the personal topic), “they will most likely double from here by the end. After the birth, my belly will shrink, but my _other_ curves will get larger still because of the additional hormones I’ll have due to needing to feed two babies,” Hermione explained in a tone she used when answering questions in class. She watched as Draco’s eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly before he cleared his throat and looked down to her bump.

Hermione giggled again. _Boys_.

They were silent for minutes.

“What will you do after they are born?” Draco asked abruptly, startling Hermione so that her hands covered by his— _their_ hands that lay above her unborn children in her womb, created from a liaison between her and, ironically, someone who looked just like him—convulsed involuntarily in response. She perked up at this question; for once, she could answer honestly!

“Well, I’ll probably miss the start of the term, but I’ll return as soon as I’ve given birth. I’ll be able to apparate from London to Hogsmeade, so missing the train won’t be an issue, and I’ll tell everyone that I was simply on extended holiday with my parents.”

She smiled, happy that she had this all figured out. Draco was silent, his expression stoic but not unkind, as Hermione waited for his response.

“Actually, I meant, what is your plan for your children after they are born?” Draco asked quietly.

“Oh. Well, I obviously can’t keep them, so I’ll be—”

“Why can’t you keep them?” Draco asked as if he were confused.

_Seriously? He’s really asking me this?_

Hermione raised a brow at him, but he was apathetic to the motion. Taken aback, she began slowly to explain. “There is more than a whole year left before we graduate from Hogwarts, and….I could hardly finish school and be a mother.”

Draco looked unconvinced, and was silent, so Hermione continued. “And I couldn’t leave Hogwarts to be a mother—it’s my whole life….my whole identity. I don’t fit into the Muggle world, anymore….I never did, really. My mum and dad could not care for the babies while I finished at Hogwarts, or a Muggle school for that matter; they have their dental practice. So, adoption is my only option. They’ll find a good home with _two_ parents who aren’t teenagers and who are ready for children—or at least one parent who is better able to care for them than I can.”

Draco considered this for a while.

“Your parents….they are exceptional parents, Hermione. I’m sure they would help you,” Draco said.

Hermione looked dubiously at him and, after a moment, replied with a weak, “No.” And then, finding her courage, she said, “I’m too young to be a mother. I’m not fit for it! You saw what happened when I babysat those children at Christmastime—I nearly let Ethan die, Draco! I couldn’t handle two tots for only a few hours—and I had you there helping me!” Hermione stopped speaking when she ran out of breath.

“You were brilliant with those tots, Granger!” Draco said emphatically. “That tyke eating those cookies and having an allergy fit or whatever you call it wasn’t any more your fault than it was his! And you saved his life, Hermione! Plus,” Draco added, less defensively, “they adored you, you know.”

Draco’s pushiness was beginning to grate on her nerves. She snorted dismissively and moved to rest her back against the sofa back and covered her belly with his jersey. “I just don’t see another way besides giving them up.”

 _Why was he so insistent? It wasn’t as though he’d be affected by her choice!_ Actually, he’d be more affected if she kept them (like he was suggesting) than if she gave them up, so why the push for her to keep them?

 _Unless he really doesn’t intend to stay with you after the babies are born,_ said a little voice that she tried, unsuccessfully, to squash; she ignored it instead.

Even if she did keep the babies, she thought, AND she and Draco remained a couple, the thought of her caring for babies in between attending classes and studying was absurd! Surely she’d need to find a nanny, and how would she pay for that? She was not even going to tell her parents that she was pregnant, let alone that she had two babies to raise; counting on their bank account was definitely not an option.

And IF she and Draco stayed together, would he play ‘happy family’ with her and two babies when neither he nor she were fully educated and were likely estranged from their own families? Not bloody likely. Even in the best scenario (in which money were no issue and they both could finish Hogwarts and she could keep her children), there still was the fact that her children would have a Muggleborn witch as a mother in a time when a psychopathic maniac was murdering Muggleborns and wanted to eradicate Muggles; their heritage would be a huge risk factor.

Giving them up was the only option.

Neither she nor Draco made a sound for a long while, and so Hermione was startled when Draco finally spoke. “Maybe the children’s father would help you care for them while you finish at Hogwarts,” he suggested lamely.

Hermione’s eyes closed as she sighed mentally. She tried, with difficulty, to keep her exasperation out of her tone when she said, “What teenaged boy _wants_ to be a father, Draco? Think about it: how would you feel, if it were _you_ who had inadvertently gotten a girl pregnant?”

Draco hesitated, which made Hermione nervous (in addition to being annoyed).

“This really doesn’t matter, anyway,” she hastily said. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone that I’m pregnant, remember? And if I did manage to discover the father’s identity and I told him….What makes you think that he, a _rapist_ , would be better for the babies than no father at all?”

Draco realized that Hermione was right there; the children _would_ be better off without that kind of man influencing their lives. Draco was quiet once more, though his brain kept right on rolling—but so did Hermione’s—and in Draco’s moment of hesitation, Hermione took the opportunity to further her argument. “If I did tell the father….what if his family found out? What if they are ‘purebloods’ and they object to the babies because they are ‘half-bloods’? His family might disown him, and where would that leave the babies? And if his family were loyal to Voldemort, then the babies and I certainly would not be welcome in their world. They might try to off the children!” Hermione cried.

Draco grimaced at the mention of his ‘master,’ causing Hermione to feel a twinge of guilt; she hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable.

There was a lull in the conversation, and when Draco replied, he didn’t answer her directly (typical Slytherin methodology). With downcast eyes, said, “Then you would do well to discover where their loyalties lay before revealing your pregnancy.”

Hermione hummed her agreement, though she still felt annoyance at Draco’s persistence.

Then Draco surprised Hermione by saying, “If it were me who had fathered a child, then I’d take responsibility.”

It took Hermione a few moments to process the information Draco had volunteered. Never one to be content to just _leave things be,_ Hermione asked, “What if the mother were a Muggleborn?”

“I’d still take responsibility,” Draco responded confidently with a tip of his head.

“But….your family wouldn’t let you, surely!” an incredulous Hermione said breathily.

Draco shrugged. “I’d still take responsibility.”

Draco’s chivalrous words and confident manner stirred Hermione’s heart to pick up its pace; but it didn’t last long, as her brain quickly took control of her emotions and tempered their visceral manifestations. _Hmm,_ Hermione pondered glumly. _‘Take responsibility’_. _How….indifferent—the complete opposite of, ‘I couldn’t care less if my children were less-than-pureblood, and I’d love them none the less—because they would be mine.’_ She pouted a moment or two—and then immediately thereupon felt stupid for pouting.

 _Get a grip, Hermione! This whole scenario is moot, for heaven’s sake!_ She had no right to be upset with Draco’s answers, she told herself. _He is not the father of the babies, so your pouting over his less-than-satisfying answers is ridiculous!_

Despite her disappointment (and a twinge of resentment, despite knowing how utterly daft it was), she replied to his sentiments the best she was able.

“That’s….big of you, Draco. Not every bloke would do the same.”

Even though it wasn’t late and she was not physically tired, she was emotionally exhausted, and she felt like this topic had run its course. Draco looked as though he hadn’t slept in days, and all of that combined with the half-darkness of the Room and the cozy sofa and the adorable boy in it just made Hermione ready to lie down and get cozy. She pulled her wand out from her sleeve and with it she removed her shoes (and her bra, but Draco didn’t know that) and transfigured her jeans into pajamas.

“Would you like me to do the same for you?” Hermione politely asked Draco, who was shoeless but still in his slacks and dress shirt and jumper. He nodded. Hermione transfigured his clothes into the pajamas she knew ‘her boys’ wore on cold nights: loose flannel pants with a drawstring and a fitted t-shirt. Draco gave his threads a quick glance before nodding at her in approval and patting the spot next to him.

Hermione joined him, lying down facing him on her side after using her wand to fluff her pillow and thicken the blanket’s plush before pulling it up to her chin. She slipped her wand under her pillow along with an arm. With her other arm, she sought out Draco’s hand. Finding it, she gave it a squeeze.

“Let’s sleep now, Draco. You look exhausted, and I am as well,” she said, feigning a yawn.

Draco looked at her for a few moments before nodding and bringing his left arm out from under him to slide it under Hermione’s pillow and inching his body closer to her so that their bodies were all but touching.

Draco fell asleep quickly, but sleep eluded Hermione for many hours that night. She let out silent tears of frustration and confusion, but mostly of anger; she hated her circumstances and those of the world in which she lived….into that which she was compulsorily bringing innocent children.

~


	10. Chapter 10

-April 1997

After Draco discovered Hermione’s pregnancy, he was hard pressed to keep his eyes off of Hermione in classes and in the Great Hall. So far, they had done well keeping up the appearance that the two of them were still enemies while they were in public; but since the resumption of school after the Easter Holiday one week ago, he found his eyes seeking her out and his gaze lingering too long—all too often.

He kept remembering how she’d looked in his Quidditch jersey….with his name on her. She was _his_ (labeled so or not), and as he had a strong urge to protect her, he likewise had a strong desire to inform the whole of Hogwarts (especially the males) that Hermione Granger was spoken for.

Since the Masquerade Ball, she’d taken to wearing makeup, and he had begun seeing other blokes taking notice of her because of it. Even other Slytherin Pureblood blokes weren’t letting her blood status deter them from giving Hermione a second glance, and so (though he knew that he shouldn’t be ogling the ‘Mudblood’s’ pretty face at all to keep up appearances), he, too, had been indulging in covert gazes.

In the past week, he’d been quite chuffed—giddy, in fact (he was a sixteen year old male, after all, no matter how respectfully he normally treated Hermione) when he noted that even through Hermione’s robes he could see the change in Hermione’s form (her larger breasts, that is). He was pleased about being able to enjoy her new visage at times other than when in the Room—until he overheard some seventh-year bloke from Ravenclaw say to his mates, ‘Speaking of Herbology, have you seen Granger’s _blooming_ _Puffapods_ lately?’

They, obviously, were speaking of Hermione’s, erm, _bosom_. Draco did not like his girl being ogled, and he had almost hexed those _tossers_ right there and then in the corridor and earned detention (as well as given away his true feelings about Hermione). THAT near blunder inspired the thought of him proposing to her that she hide her growing….femininity (as his mother would delicately and politely say).

He knew it was futile to try to control her, though, and impossible to control the other blokes—in _reality_. So, in his _fantasies_ , he made sure to have his way. In his fantasies, no bloke dared look at her or dream of her but him; she always wore his jersey (sometimes even _just_ his jersey), and she always only had eyes for him (even forgetting all about the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Him and The Weasel. Fantasies indeed.)

Draco found himself drawn to her hair, trying to smell it as they passed one another and barely resisting the temptation to reach out and rake his hand through the curly, coconut-perfumed mass.

 _If the stress of my task doesn’t lead me to madness, then resisting Hermione surely will_ , he thought.

Though charmed to be invisible, the bump was the focus of his gaze (not to mention his thoughts) many times. He was uneasy about the fact that her secret would be discovered if her skin showed or if someone else touched her abdomen. He’d felt protective of her before now, but since discovering her secret, he felt extremely protective of her—and protective of her secret. He’d thought about it almost constantly the past week; discovering a secret like Hermione’s was not easy to forget—even when it didn’t involve one’s own girlfriend. Any rumor of any girl being pregnant at Hogwarts was certainly juicy gossip and always spread like Fiendfyre. The fact that the pregnant girl this time was the know-it-all best friend of the ‘Chosen One’ ( _oh, blech,_ _spare me!_ ), and ‘most likely to be Head Girl next year’ would be impossible for anyone to resist passing on. If the wrong people were to hear about it (which they surely would), then things would get precarious for Hermione—and Draco….well, he would probably be a certain snake’s next meal.

After each time his gaze lingered too long, he mentally rebuked himself; it was dangerous—for all of them. _All of us_ , he mused one day as he ate a quick meal, which was compulsory upon threat of Hermione being angry with him (she really was worried for him, and he felt compelled to oblige her before trekking up to the Room to work on his task). Grouping the four of them together felt….right, he thought, surprising himself. _Right—but ridiculous_ , he scoffed, shaking his head.

_All of us—Hermione, her children, and me._

He had pictured he and Hermione meeting secretly like they were now, but with two tots in tow. _Ridiculous. Impractical._

He had pictured a homey dorm room in which Hermione shared with the tots….and he would secretly visit them there. _Ridiculous. Immature._

He had pictured a house elf babysitting the tots while Hermione attended classes and meals in the Great Hall and Quidditch matches (at which she would be wearing his Slytherin jersey and cheering for him, of course), and the two of them holding hands and kissing in the corridors as he walked beside her everywhere she went. _Ridiculous. Impossible_.

He had pictured Hermione’s children having their father involved and helping Hermione with the responsibilities of being a parent. He also had pictured in the same scenario this bloke being a great father and respecting Hermione, and Hermione being free to pursue her goals and dreams—and, most importantly, a relationship with him, Draco. She would be his—at least when she wasn’t busy with childcare. _How much time would that take up?_ he had wondered, until he remembered the babysitting experience he had with Hermione. He had frowned. _Those moppets hadn’t left her any ‘free’ time at all, and any time Hermione would have while her children were with their father would likely be spent on her schoolwork._ He’d frowned again. _Realistic. But unacceptable._

He had pictured Hermione not attending Hogwarts next year so she could care for her children. He would meet her on Hogsmeade days when she could get a babysitter for the tots. He had felt a pang in his chest at the thought. _Unacceptable._

He hadn’t come up with a single viable plan that would keep provide a situation capable of giving Hermione the life she wanted while keeping her children with her. None of his ideas appealed to him as Hermione’s boyfriend, either. _Maybe she is right_ , he had thought, feeling strangely defeated. _She usually is._

After that, he had conceded to imagining the scenario based on Hermione’s plan of giving up her children. She would come back to Hogwarts next year and she and he were together (in secret or not—he didn’t care). He had pictured Hermione’s smiling face and bright eyes—until he remembered the haunted look of a mother who had given up her baby; that was why Hermione giving up her children was _unacceptable._ He would not be able to bear seeing Hermione’s eyes vacant and dulled, her face tearful and marred with regret.

The solution came to him in the Room one night when he was alone (and not even attempting to fix the cabinet). _She needs consistent, reliable help like her parents could provide, but here at Hogwarts. Even my mother had help—_

 _Why didn’t I think of this sooner?_ House elves had, after all, allowed his own mother to be a mother and a busy socialite and keep up with her hobbies when he was a tot. A House elf or two babysitting Hermione’s tots while she studied and attended classes (and Quidditch matches, at which she would be wearing _his_ Slytherin jersey and cheering for _him_ , of course) would provide the much-needed time for he and Hermione to be together!

Draco’s heart beat faster as he imagined this scenario….and his imagination did, indeed, start to run away with him. This way, he thought, the two of them could hold hands and kiss in the corridors as he walked beside her, unencumbered, everywhere she went—or, if they had to keep their relationship a secret, then they could meet up in the Room, uninterrupted and with no thought to the needs of others, much like now (well, almost; he had the Dark Lord to consider, after all). 

There was one hitch to his plan, and it was Money, and—most likely—loads of it. 

_That I can do._

Draco smiled broadly, whistling a jaunty tune as he marveled at his genius and in anticipation of sharing his idea with Hermione.

_Now, to arrange it all….but perhaps after I fix this bloody cabinet._

~

Mid-April brought to Hermione the stress and excitement of the Apparition Exam. With special permission from and a temporary lowering of the anti-apparition wards in the Hospital Wing by Professor Dumbledore, she practiced where Madam Pomfrey was immediately available in case she were to splinch. Her innate ability to focus, plus the added motivation to avoid splinching and potentially harming the twins, made the task of concentrating on the ‘Three D’s’ simple for her. Hermione quickly became a competent apparator and never once splinched, so she received Madam Pomfrey’s permission to freely apparate while pregnant once she passed the official exam.

In all of the practice sessions, Draco had done exceptionally well, too, but he felt no excitement or stress about the upcoming Apparition Exam in Hogsmeade. He was too young to take the test—he and _Potter_ , he thought with disdain—and would have to wait until the term ended and take his exam at the Ministry. _If I even survive this term_ , he’d thought whenever the subject arose. 

Hermione’s practices with Madam Pomfrey and the time she’d needed to spend in the Library getting homework and studying completed had proven beneficial to Draco; he worked on the Vanishing Cabinet. To his utter vexation, he was no closer to fixing it than he had been at the start of the Easter Holiday, however.

~

-April 21, 1997

On the twenty-first, Hermione had a date planned with Draco in the evening. She was on a natural high from her successful performance during the Apparition Exam earlier that day and from anticipation of spending time with Draco, which had been severely limited in the last two weeks. After dinner, at which she actually couldn’t eat much because she was so excited for her date, she showered and got ‘dolled-up.’ She put on a long, stretchy, Muggle-style skirt, which she charmed to be Slytherin green to match Draco’s Quidditch jersey. She paired the skirt with the jersey over a tank with a built-in bra; she wanted to look nice, but comfort (especially while pregnant) was her primary aim. Feeling a trivial amount of disloyalty to her own House, she added her large Gryffindor hoodie. She added to the look her black, chunky heeled shoes. The Bloodstone choker was in its normal place on her throat and, incidentally, tied together the skirt and the hoodie. After her makeup was complete (she put more on than she did during the day), she was heading for the Common Room when Ron and Harry met her in the corridor outside of her dormitory and pushed her back inside.

Hermione gasped, surprised but more shocked. “How did you boys get up here?” she demanded, even as her gaze fell onto what the boys held in their hands. Her eyes went wide. “Broomsticks! You—you flew up here?” she squealed (more impressed at their genius than surprised now). The boys grinned broadly and pushed her further back inside her dorm room and shut the door.

“It was the only way to get up here as the stairs wouldn’t allow us to make use of them, wasn’t it?” Ron said arrogantly, smirking, proud as pie. The idea must have been his, Hermione thought as she smiled at him.

“You look nice, Hermione,” Ron said stoically, as if he’d barely noticed, but still, Hermione smiled and thanked him.

“You do,” Harry chimed in with a sincere tone and expression. But his expression changed quickly. “You’re wearing that to Hagrid’s?” he asked in a dubious tone. Hagrid’s wasn’t the cleanest of homes, and Hermione usually wore her ‘grubbies’ when calling on him.

Hermione clenched her jaw. “I told you this morning in the courtyard that I couldn’t go to Hagrid’s, Harry. Why are you two here, anyway?” she asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

Harry’s eyes narrowed briefly, but he quickly changed his expression, trying to hide his own annoyance.

“Well, Ron is avoiding Lavender,” he said, to which Ron spluttered a denial that Harry and Hermione ignored, “and I’m here to tell you that I can’t go to Hagrid’s because I’ll be taking the Felix Felicis soon.”

Hermione smiled genuinely. “Oh, Harry, that’s brilliant. Well done!” she praised as she patted him on the shoulder.

Harry and Ron exchanged a ‘look,’ and then smirked at one another.

“Yeah, well, I was hoping that you would go to Hagrid’s for Aragog’s funeral with Ron,” Harry said quietly.

“No, I can’t,” Hermione said firmly.

“Where are you headed to looking so fancy?” Harry asked abruptly (and with a hint of superiority in his tone and with an unusual brusqueness in his behavior that surprised Hermione).

She raised her brows slightly as she answered him. “I’m not dressed fancy,” she said.

 _For Heaven’s sake! He thinks THIS my attempt to look fancy?_ She sighed.

“Now, Harry, don’t forget your Cloak because the Felix Felicis may compel you to go outside of the castle and you don’t want to be caught outside after curfew.”

Harry appeared to want to argue, but instead he nodded curtly, pulling the Cloak out of his robe pocket and donning it. The trio headed out of the girls’ dormitories and to the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione thinking of a lie with which to excuse herself from Ron’s presence.

Harry was invisible under his Cloak, but Ron and Hermione exiting the dormitory together was completely visible, and it did not go unnoticed by Lavender Brown.

“What are you doing with _her_?” she shrieked at Ron. Ron gave Hermione a helpless and very pathetic look and headed toward his girlfriend like he was headed for execution.

Hermione was home free! She smiled broadly at her good luck (Hermione Granger needed no Felix Felicis!) as she walked, smiling and waving at an angry looking Ginny, who was making her way through the Gryffindor Common Room—her boyfriend, Dean Thomas, trying to catch up to her. Quite a few boys, including Neville and Cormac McLaggen, eyed her approvingly, she noted. Every day, she used some Glamour Charms, but rarely did she use them all at once (and rarely did she tame her mane) as she had tonight; the effect was very attractive, if Hermione did say so herself. Neville instantly turned a bright red hue upon realizing that Hermione saw him checking her out, and although Cormac did seem pleased by what he saw, he made no effort to send her one of his famous smolders; Hermione was completely unbothered by that. The approval of only one bloke mattered to her, and that bloke was definitely not in the Gryffindor Common Room.

Hermione’s smile lasted into the empty corridor. Hearing her name being spoken once outside of the portrait hole made her gasp loudly; she seemed to be alone. She drew her wand as Harry revealed himself from under his Cloak.

“Harry Potter! You scared me,” she said with a smile and tiny nervous laugh, both of which faded quickly as she comprehended, by the look on Harry’s face, that this conversation was not going to be a pleasant one. He was quiet, but his expression told her that inside he was seething. Her eyes took in the rest of him, and it was then that she noticed the Map in his hand.

“You’re going looking for Professor Slughorn, then, Harry? Right?” she asked cheerfully, hopefully, pointing to the Map. She aimed to keep him focused on getting Professor Slughorn’s memory (which Harry desperately needed to retrieve) and avoid the topic of Draco (of which _she_ was in desperate need). She prayed that Harry had not been searching the Map for Draco.

Harry shook his head. “No. I’ve been looking for you, though,” he said curtly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Harry, you knew where I was,” she said, confused. _Did he already take the Felix and it’s causing this bizarre behavior as a side effect?_ “I was in the Common Room,” she calmly and carefully reminded him.

“You were just now, but what about all of the other times?”

_Oh, no. No, no, no._

She acted quickly. “What other times, Harry?” she said cautiously, speaking in a friendly tone but feigning confusion.

“When you haven’t been with me or Ron or in the Library or the Hospital Wing—or anywhere!”

“Why ever would you be looking for _me_ on the Map?” she asked.

“I’ve been worried about you, Hermione! You’ve been absent so much lately—sometimes at night, too! After you were raped last year—”

“Harry, please lower your voice!” she hissed.

“I’d think you’d stay a little closer to us!” Harry hissed back, his volume lower but his tone just as sharp. “We know that Crabbe and Goyle have been using Polyjuice Potion for Malfoy, and I’m—”

“Harry, we know that Malfoy had nothing to do with my rape, and lower your voice!” she commanded.

Harry, noticing the worry cross Hermione’s face, took a couple of relaxing breaths. “I know you’ve been lying about where you’ve really been going. What are you hiding from me, Hermione?”

Harry’s tone was soft, and Hermione knew he was more hurt than angry. Guilt hit her—hard—right in the gut, and she felt her cheeks bloom with heat. Harry only had her best interest at heart, she knew, and she was lying to him—had been for over a month now.

“I….well, I….” she started, but she realized that she was already burdened by so many lies that she couldn’t stand to tell one more. She sighed, resigned to the truth (well, as much as was prudent to tell, anyway) despite the consequences. “You’re not going to like it, Harry,” she said.

“Oh, I already know that, Hermione,” Harry spat angrily and assuredly.

 _Oh, for cripes sake!_ Hermione sighed, this time out of frustration.

“You haven’t seen me on the Map because I’ve been in the Room of Requirement, Harry,” Hermione said slowly. Harry raised his dark black brows to meet his messy dark black hair, waiting for an explanation. He didn’t seem shocked in the least, which gave Hermione cause for concern.

“I’ve been tutoring again. Muggle Studies. For Malfoy. He failed it last term—again,” she lied easily, and adding an eye roll for effect. Draco’s assertion that she was a terrible liar came to mind, and she hoped that Harry didn’t have the same opinion. “Don’t worry; he’s behaving himself, and I always have my wand, and I’m always on my guard. Besides,” she added excitedly, “it’s the perfect opportunity for me to find out what he does in there.” She wiggled her eyebrows over-exaggeratedly.

Hermione was betting that Harry would see this as a ‘silver lining’ and leave it alone. Harry did seem to ponder all she said for a minute, his scowl turning less scowl-y, until he suddenly looked incredulously at her.

“And you dressing up,” he said accusingly as he pointed to her from head to toes. “Is that for him?”

“Of course not! This is not about Malfoy! This is me wanting to try something different, for once!”

“I know he’s up to something, Hermione. I know he’s a Dea—”

“Yes, yes, I know; you think he’s a Death Eater,” she hissed, putting up her hand to stop him. “He hasn’t done anything to make me think that he is a Death Eater, though, so for now, we have to give him the benefit of the doubt, Harry.”

Harry sighed and was silent for a few moments before he nodded. “I just wish that you wouldn’t keep secrets, Hermione. And that you wouldn’t go places alone. And that you wouldn’t tutor that slimy git.”

Hermione nodded, but bristled a bit internally at Harry’s insult of her paramour. “I completely understand your concerns, Harry, I do. I’ll try harder from now on to be more….forthcoming, alright?” Hermione said quickly and with just enough sincerity so that Harry would hopefully let her go.

“Now,” she continued, “ _you_ have a very important task to accomplish, so no more worrying about _me_ tonight, alright?” She gave him a winning smile and squeezed his shoulder fondly.

He nodded and pulled Hermione in for a hug. He held her tightly, feeling her larger-than-usual breasts and stomach and remembering the babies for the first time in a while. “Oh, umm, sorry, Hermione—did I hurt you—or the babies?” Harry whispered in her ear as he looked around the corridor for other people, blushing at his mistake (and for momentarily thinking about her breasts) and feeling guilty for forgetting about Hermione’s tots. He’d really been quite self-centered lately, he realized.

Hermione pulled back and gave him a genuine smile. “No, Harry, we are fine.” At Harry’s look of relief, which was such an endearing look to Hermione, she added, “I’ve missed you, you know? Missed us.” She pulled him back to an embrace. She really had missed him, although she hadn’t realized it until now. She cared for Harry deeply, but, she realized just then, she felt only friendship for him; and what she felt for Draco was something much, much different. What she felt for Draco was deep and strong—not deeper or stronger than what she felt for Harry—but….passionate. Y _es, that’s the perfect description!_ She felt her cheeks flame with the realization.

“Yeah, me too,” he said sadly, bringing Hermione back to him mentally and out of her daydream of Draco.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat primly, “you’ve got to go, Harry Potter…. _Good Luck_ ,” she said cheekily with a smile, a wink, and a gentle push. Harry smiled and nodded before drinking his Liquid Luck and donning his Cloak once more.

Hermione waved at Harry, but waited for a long while before Disillusioning herself and leaving the Gryffindor Corridor, heading to the Room to meet Draco.

~

He could see her looking at him—well, in his direction really. Being invisible did not make him ignorant of the fact that his footfalls could be heard, so he charmed his shoes with a Silencing spell. He practically ran down the corridor. He could not get away from Gryffindor tower fast enough. He hadn’t been so affected in a while. That hug—so emotional, so familiar, so comfortable—had been like a sucker punch to the gut, but nothing compared to her words.

 _We are fine. I’ve missed you. Missed us_.

At those words, he’d felt as if his chest had exploded. He did not believe her words at first, but he’d heard the sincerity in them, and he had to wonder: just how deep did those feelings of hers go? Did she want to be with him?

He’d barely seen her in weeks. He’d missed her—everything about her. He wanted more of her time, but it seemed as though he wasn’t the only one. He was green with envy, and although he wasn’t accustomed to it, he recognized it with chagrin and did what he always did when met with the emotion: he determined to erase the cause of it.

After everything they’d been through together, he thought, he’d be damned if he lost her now. Not without a fight.

~


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date! (a continuation of the evening from ch 10) Important plot nuggets interspersed with fluff, fluff, and more fluff! i hope that you enjoy it!  
> oh, and which boy's POV was that at the end of last chapter, hmmm? ;)

-April 21, 1997 (continued)

Draco was waiting for Hermione beside the wall that concealed the secret entrance to the Room of Requirement. However, tonight he would not be requiring the Room of Hidden Things; tonight was special.

He’d dismissed the two Slytherin First Year girls (who were really Crabbe and Goyle under the effects of Polyjuice) ten minutes before Hermione was due to arrive. He’d then waited twenty minutes after the agreed upon meeting time, until he could wait no longer. He had something important to tell Hermione, he had a special surprise waiting, and he was worried about her wandering the corridors alone. Even though he knew she’d Disillusion herself, he was still concerned when she was late.

He’d gone in search of her, taking the route that he knew she’d take (the shortest one) from Gryffindor Tower to the Room. Turning the corner very near the Gryffindor dormitory entrance, he’d found her—with Potter. Luckily for Draco, he was already Disillusioned, and so he’d moved closer to his girlfriend and her best friend. Hermione had looked flushed and flustered. From what he could see and hear, he hadn’t come upon them at the beginning of their conversation.

He’d wanted to curse Potter on the spot when he’d seen him hugging Hermione—mercifully, though, he’d kept his head. Hermione would be furious if he did any such thing to her _precious Potter_ , and he would only be jeopardizing their relationship by acting rashly. Instead, he’d balled up his fists, his nails digging into his pale, bony palms, and had watched until the little corridor conversation ended. When it had, he’d run back to the Room. He’d been out of breath and his heart had raced for more than just the physical exertion. He wished that he hadn’t heard and seen what he had. He’d been so confident about their date tonight, but now he was a mess. Now he had doubts. The boyish excitement he’d felt earlier (which had been great enough to overcome his extreme disappointment, frustration, and anxiety over the still-broken Vanishing Cabinet) had been doused upon seeing Hermione— _his_ _girl_ —in the arms of _Potter_ ( _of all the wizards!_ ).

~

As Hermione had taken her time in heading to the Room, Draco’s breathing was back to normal when she arrived. He was still trying—hard—to reign in his anger and jealousy, though, as Hermione removed the Disillusionment Charm. She gave him a brilliant grin, which would have had him melting into a puddle on the floor if he’d been in a better mood. He thought that she looked prettier than usual; realizing that she had put in extra effort for their date (although he thought that her choice of attire was nothing to write home about) gave him a glimmer of hope that she did, in fact, want him and not Potter.

 _Unless she hadn’t known that Potter wants her before their little chat in the corridor, and now that she does know she will chuck me_ , he thought, dejected once more.

He must have had a strange expression on his face, because Hermione’s smiling one had changed.

“Draco,” she whispered, looking around the corridor to make sure they were alone before becoming too familiar with him in a public space. “Is something wrong?”

He snapped out of it, and shook his head, trying to rid it of the doubt. “Let’s get inside, first,” he whispered back, walking quickly to ask the Room for what he required.

When the door appeared, Draco pulled it open for Hermione and she nodded and smiled her thanks. “Such a gentleman,” she said with a teasing lit to her voice. Draco gave her a weak smile and firmly closed the door behind him. He looked over what the Room had provided; he was pleased. They stood in a replica of part of his family’s property. A table was set for two under a metal pergola, designed in the Gothic style, covered with vines. The ‘sky’ was dark and floating paper lanterns provided light to the table. All around them were tall hedges, perfectly manicured and in which charmed lightning bugs hovered.

Hermione was still admiring the setting when Draco hollered, “Kreacher!” Hermione startled at the noise and then paled, her shocked expression going unnoticed by Draco as she made to hide herself; Harry’s house elf seeing her with Draco was not on her ‘Top Ten List of Things to Discuss With Harry.’ She’d barely had time to hide herself behind a hedge when a ‘pop’ announced Kreacher’s arrival. Hermione peeked out from behind the hedge as Kreacher bowed low to Draco. She rolled her eyes before a certain amount of fear and doubt sprung into Hermione’s mind as she watched and waited for what would come next; an elf that hated her existence associating with the boy she thought she loved did not inspire confidence.

Draco nodded a greeting to the elf. “I see that you cleaned up, as I asked,” he said as his hand gestured, somewhat arrogantly, Hermione admitted, to Kreacher. “Isn’t this better?” He crossed his arms over his chest superciliously.

The elf did look cleaner than Hermione had ever seen him; he had apparently bathed and washed his tiny tea-towel-toga-like garment. Hermione was impressed; no one in the time Hermione had know Kreacher had been able to convince him to clean up.

Kreacher bowed again (and Hermione rolled her eyes again) and said in his gravelly voice, “Young Master Black was correct, of course, he was. Thanks you for allowing Kreacher to serve the Ancient and Most—”

“Noble House of Black,” mimicked Hermione, letting her annoyance with the sycophantic elf’s mantra get the better of her. She winced when she heard Draco chuckle.

“Hermione? Have something that you’d like to share?” he said in the tone he adopted when he was playfully pretending to be snobbish. Realizing she was caught, she came out from behind the shrubbery, affecting a prim demeanor as she looked Kreacher in the face, her hand wrapped around her wand.

Kreacher scowled when he recognized that the person whom his ‘Young Master Black’ had referred to (in their preparations for tonight) as his ‘lady’ was Hermione Granger, the ‘ _Mudblood filth_.’ Draco, not being accustomed to Kreacher and his way of speaking, was ill prepared for what the elf had to say next.

“Harry Potter’s Mudblood friend, the—”

“Kreacher!” Draco barked harshly with surprised eyes. “Do not call Hermione that or I’ll order you to punish yourself.”

“Draco!” Hermione gasped.

In surprise, Draco’s head turned sharply at Hermione’s reprimand. He raised a single brow at her.

 _What happened to defending the honor of one’s lady?_ he thought.

“If you treat him like that then this date is over,” Hermione warned. 

_Of course, my sweet, righteous, Muggleborn girlfriend would be a champion for house elves—even ones that insult her, apparently,_ he thought sarcastically before he had the grace to look ashamed. “My apologies, Mione,” he said quietly.

Hermione nodded and, after waiting expectantly for what didn’t come, she raised her brows and nudged her head in Kreacher’s direction. Draco sighed petulantly (and in spite of herself, Hermione’s lip twitched).

“Kreacher, I apologize for threatening you—however….” He paused for dramatic effect while raising a finger to shake at the elf, “do not call her that vile name! Never again. You may refer to her as Miss Granger, or Mistress Hermione, or….” Draco paused again in thought before smirking playfully at Hermione and winking, his tone going from dead serious to mischievous with one bat of his eyelids, “or….Master’s Lady.”

Hermione’s stomach quivered pleasantly at the idea that she was _Draco’s_ _lady,_ and she struggled to hide a grin. At the look of resignation on Kreacher’s face and at Draco’s mirthful expression, she giggled and shot Kreacher a satisfied expression. After Kreacher bowed again to Draco with a _‘Yes, Master Draco,’_ she couldn’t help but think ruefully, _That bow didn’t seem so abhorrent._

“Kreacher, take Miss Granger’s jacket (repulsive colors, by the way, Hermione) and warm it up around here, would you?”

Kreacher obediently snapped his fingers, and it was instantly warmer in the faux outdoor garden. Hermione tutted at Draco for his zing at her House as she unzipped her Gryffindor hooded sweatshirt and handed it to Kreacher. Draco noticed right away that she was wearing his Quidditch jersey and grinned and wagged his eyebrows in approval. Hermione blushed as she laughed, sitting in the chair Draco pulled out for her. Her gaze fell on Kreacher as she sat; the elf was still holding her jacket and staring at her stomach, blatantly shocked. After a few seconds, she cleared her throat, and Kreacher looked to Draco with wide eyes that seemed to silently say, _Did you know, Young Master Black, that your lady is with child?_

Draco chuckled at the elf as he sat down in his own chair opposite Hermione. Hermione quirked her eyebrow up at Draco. “You must have forgotten to use a certain charm,” he said, obviously amused and fully aware that she had, indeed, remembered to charm her pregnant belly.

“No, I always—” Hermione began but ended abruptly. After a pensive pause, she turned to Kreacher. “Kreacher, can elves see through Disillusionment Charms?”

Kreacher, who had kept his wide eyes and his attention on his master, pretended that he did not hear her.

Draco cleared his throat and said, gleefully, “Kreacher, Miss Granger is your _Mistress_ for the evening, and she has asked you a question.” Draco looked like he was having way too much fun, Hermione thought as she smiled and rolled her eyes at him.

Kreacher immediately turned to Hermione and ground out, “Elves being able to see through wizards’ and witches’ charms….Miss Granger.”

Hermione nodded and began to ponder the relevance and implications of this fact.

“Now,” Draco said impatiently, reminiscent of his old, prattish ways, “Kreacher, bring our dinner. I haven’t eaten all day.”

Kreacher disapparated with a ‘pop,’ and Hermione immediately questioned Draco. “He can’t be apparating into and out of the Castle—that’s impossible!”

Draco nodded. “It is. Kreacher is only apparating down to the Hogwarts kitchen,” he said.

Hermione nodded sheepishly and then was awestruck as their dinner appeared on their table. They each had a Cornish Pasty, a swiss chard and chickpea salad with garlic dressing, pasta in a brown butter and sweet potato sauce, and a drink: Butterbeer for Draco and pumpkin juice for Hermione. Hermione realized that Draco had chosen her beverage with care (because Butterbeer contains just a smidge of alcohol), and she was surprised and impressed. At her praise and thanks to him for his thoughtfulness, Draco melted and beamed; after all, his intention for their entire evening was to keep Hermione smiling at him.

“So….dare I eat what Kreacher has prepared for _‘Harry Potter’s Mudblood’?”_ she asked, only half serious. Draco frowned at the slur, but assured her that the food was being prepared by the Hogwarts House Elves and that Kreacher was just here to serve it. He needed Kreacher’s discretion, he explained, which would not be something the Hogwarts House Elves would be able to accommodate for two students breaking curfew and other rules.

“So, you and Kreacher became acquainted at Sirius Black’s home, I presume?” Draco said quietly as he and his lady tucked into their meals.

Hermione cringed, although she’d known the second Kreacher saw her tonight that this topic would be coming up. Despite how much she trusted Draco, she was hesitant; Sirius’s former home (now Harry’s) was still the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. That information was a well-kept secret and one that Hermione had a responsibility to protect (on the off-chance that Kreacher hadn’t already informed Draco or his Death Eater relatives of that fact). 

She nodded. “Yes. I met him when I visited Sirius there with Harry,” she admitted simply. And then, because she just couldn’t help herself, she added tightly, “Kreacher is very…. _devoted_ to the ideals of the Black family—except for Sirius’s, that is,” while she recalled the incident last year at the Ministry building. Kreacher had deliberately lied to Harry on order from Draco’s aunt, Bellatrix Black-LeStrange. It was Kreacher’s lie that led to Sirius’s death and the injuries of her friends and herself at the Ministry. That same night, Draco’s father had been arrested with other Death Eaters who had battled the teens.

Visibly uncomfortable with this topic, Draco merely nodded his agreement. He then asked, “Did you often go visiting with _Potter_?” He’d tried to keep his jealousy out of his tone, but Hermione picked up on it and sent him a tiny frown.

“I visited Sirius the summer before fifth year with Harry, Ron, and Ginny,” she replied.

Draco was silent for a moment, but as Hermione sipped on her pumpkin juice, he said, “Potter seems to fancy you, Hermione.”

Hermione immediately laughed, spraying juice back into her goblet as a result. After coughing to clear her airway, she said, “I assure you, Draco, that Harry only has eyes for one witch, and she’s not me.” Hermione laughed again at the thought, wiping the tears from her eyes that had accumulated due to her coughing. When sober again, she said quietly, “Besides….I only have eyes for one wizard….and I’m looking at him.”

The pale, porcelain-skinned face remained impassive, but in Draco’s eyes, which seemed to be examining her, Hermione saw sparks of glee at her declaration.

“You’re sure?” he stoically asked, averting his eyes as he pushed his food around his plate. “Because I know that there’s much history between you and Potter—and that it’s a much better history than yours and mine—so if you would rather—”

“Draco,” Hermione breathed, reaching across the table for his hand, their eyes meeting again at the contact. “I wouldn’t rather,” she said shaking her head before flashing him a brilliant, genuine smile that reached her eyes.

Draco didn’t need to clarify what he’d seen and heard in the corridor while he was spying on Hermione; her eyes exuded truth, and in them, Draco saw everything he needed to know. Draco’s face then evolved to be as happy-smug as Hermione had ever seen it, and it made her blush and grin (and the butterflies in her stomach flutter pleasantly again) in response.

After a few minutes of silence, Hermione spoke. “Kreacher must think highly of your mum to be at your beck and call—as she is no longer a Black, technically, and neither are you,” she carefully observed as she twirled her pasta around her fork.

Draco paused in his polite but voracious eating (he was already halfway done) and looked at Hermione for a moment before speaking. He knew that he needed to address the incident from a year ago, however uncomfortable it may be; Hermione would appreciate him all the more for his honesty.

“Kreacher will assist any descendant of the Black family,” he said carefully. “He will not disobey Potter’s _direct_ commands, but he has no reservations when it comes to a command from a Black. I expect he will always be loyal first to the Blacks—until he feels that Potter is his true master, that is,” Draco said seriously.

Hermione politely nodded, though she doubted at THAT ever being likely. She also filed away the fact that Draco knew that Harry was the owner of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place (and Master to Kreacher) now; she hoped that this tidbit of information would pacify Harry for a while.

When Hermione had assured Draco that she was finished with her dinner, he called for Kreacher. The frail, old elf appeared with a crack, and with a snap of his knarled fingers, he vanished the used dishes. With another snap, goblets of water and mugs of coffee and hot chocolate, and a tray of desserts appeared on the table.

“How may Kreacher be of service to Young Master Black and his lady?” Kreacher asked, surprising Hermione and making Draco grin.

“Bring the next part of the evening that I planned for my lady in one hour,” Draco responded before biting into a petite dessert.

Kreacher then bowed low and disapparated.

“The next part? Not _more_ food?” Hermione asked incredulously as she took in the array of sweet temptations before her. Draco, who was already into his second petite dessert, shook his head, politely dabbing his mouth with his napkin before speaking.

 _You can take the aristocrat out of the manor_ , Hermione thought amusedly, _but not the manor out of the aristocrat._ She had to admit, however, what a pleasant change Draco’s manners were compared to the manners of the boys she usually was forced to eat with. “No. He will have disapparated from here to meet up elsewhere in the castle with another elf—a Hogwarts elf—in order to leave the grounds. Once outside the wards of Hogwarts, he will disapparate to the Manor to retrieve the next part of our date,” Draco explained, his mouth twisting up slightly with his last words.

Hermione’s twisted up, too. “What do you have planned, Draco Malfoy?” she said slyly, picking out a tiny square of decadent chocolate cheesecake.

He raised his brows at her over his mug of coffee. “It’s a surprise,” he said, as if her question had been redundant.

Hermione huffed at that but then was thoughtfully silent, pondering why she had not ever read anything about house elf apparition in _Hogwarts: A History._

“So,” she said slowly, “Hogwarts’ house elves can get past the wards on the grounds, and they can aid other elves in coming and going.” Draco merely nodded, and Hermione continued. “Does that mean that they can do the same for humans or other magical creatures?” Hermione asked pensively.

Draco fixed his gaze on her, slowly finishing his (fifth) petite dessert. After he had, again, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, he spoke. “Not humans,” he said definitely before quickly adding, “and to my knowledge, no other creatures.”

Holding hands across the table, the two ate and talked about her pregnancy (how she was feeling, when her next appointment with Madam Pomfrey was, etc.), her Apparition Exam (he congratulated her for passing—although he’d had no doubt that she would, he told her sincerely—and was rewarded with a brilliant smile), and of the garden in which they sat (Draco told her was inspired by a small portion of the garden at Malfoy Manor). Draco ate most (about a dozen) of the petite treats, but there was enough dessert left for Hermione, who had now eaten two (albeit small) dinners plus the mini confections.

Draco stood before offering Hermione his hand and leading her beyond the little pergola-covered garden. Beyond the garden, the tall hedges that surrounded it seemed to form a short maze; at the end of the maze, Hermione gasped. In front of them was an expanse of lush, green lawn, some parts of it gently rolling, and above them the ‘sky’ was dark but lit with what seemed to be stars and even a ‘moon.’ An enormous lighted gazebo was visible in the distance along with some very tall trees.

“This. Is. Beautiful,” Hermione breathed as Draco stood behind her, his chin resting on her head and his arms crisscrossed over one another, wrapping her up in his embrace.

“It’s a replica of another part of my family’s estate,” he explained quietly. They stood there a few more moments until the ‘stars’ seemed to be falling down on them like snowflakes or raindrops.

“What….” Hermione began before she realized that what were descending were thousands of miniscule winged creatures. “Are these _fairies_?” she squealed uncharacteristically as she turned to face Draco.

Draco nodded proudly and started to pull her further out onto the lawn. “Dance with me, Mione?” he asked. After performing the charm of his own creation, his wand began emitting the sound of one of ‘their songs.’

“I feel so out of place here in all of this,” Hermione said as she gestured to the scene surrounding them. “I feel as though I should be wearing an elegant dress and not this,” she said, referring to her outfit, chosen for comfort over anything else.

Draco shook his head. “You look beautiful,” he whispered, taking in her entire form and causing Hermione to blush.

To Draco’s shock, Hermione quickly stepped out of her shoes and socks. “What?” she asked, shrugging. “My shoes aren’t made for dancing—and besides, I love the feel of grass on my bare feet, don’t you?”

Draco looked at her warily. “I’ve never done it, so I wouldn’t know.”

Hermione gaped at him. “Seriously?” At Draco’s nod, she exclaimed, “Well, you have to try it! Come on, now!” she commanded, motioning toward Draco’s feet.

Reluctantly, while muttering something about ‘bossy witches’ and ‘insufferable Gryffindors,’ Draco stripped off his shoes and stockings, too.

Draco then eagerly pulled Hermione into his embrace, and she forgot all about inquiring about his first experience being barefoot on grass. No space existed between their bodies as they swayed together, small, slender hands wrapping around Draco’s neck, and one large, pale hand holding tight to Hermione’s low back as the other threaded through the hairs at the nape of her neck.

The steady _lub-dub_ of Draco’s heart, which lay just beneath Hermione’s ear, provided an additional beat to every song and gave her more peace than she’d had in a long time. His heartbeat and the auditory stimuli from the instruments and the lyrics, combined with the tactile sensations created by one another’s bodies (body heat and the heat from their warm breaths; hard planes abutting soft curves; caressing digits) and their bare feet being tickled by the grass was like a heady spell that had Hermione entranced.

Lyrics seemed to pour out from Hermione’s heart, not Draco’s wand, as every word described her feelings for Draco. Song after song played as the couple lost themselves in the moment.

_‘When I see you smile, I can face the world.’ *_

_‘There’s nothing in this world that could ever do what the touch of your hands can do.’ *_

_‘You make sense of madness when my sanity hangs by a thread.’ **_

_‘If I’d only known you were there all the time, all this time.’ **_

_‘You’re the meaning in my life. You’re the inspiration….No one needs you more than I need you.’ ***_

_‘Whoa, my love, my darlin’, I’ve hungered for your touch alone.’ ******_

_‘I need your love. I need your love. God-speed your love to me.’ ******_

_‘Don’t go. You know you’ll break my heart.’ ****_

_‘Let me be the one to love you more.’ ****_

“You chose really great songs for this medley,” Hermione murmured, keeping her head on Draco’s chest but just raising it up to look at him as she spoke.

Eyes even remaining closed, Draco didn’t move at all—except for continuing their slow, swaying motion—as he spoke. “All chosen after serious contemplation, I assure you.” His tone was resolute and low, making Hermione thrill inside.

_‘Just believe in me. I will make you see all the things that your heart needs to know.’ ****_

_‘It’s your love. It just does somethin’ to me….and if you wonder about the spell I’m under, it’s your love.’ *****_

_‘Now that we’re together, I’m stronger than ever. I’m happy and free.’ *****_

The reverie burst in the middle of a song with a ‘pop,’ which signaled Kreacher’s return. The young lovers reluctantly broke away, relinquishing their holds on one another slowly, as if they were melting, and not breaking, apart.

~

* Lyrics from _When I See You Smile_ , by Uncle Sam (Bad English remake)

** Lyrics from _Now and Forever_ , by Richard Marx

*** Lyrics from _You Are The Inspiration,_ by Chicago

****** Lyrics from Unchained Melody, by The Righteous Brothers

**** Lyrics from _To Love You More_ , by Celine Dion

***** Lyrics from _It’s Your Love,_ by Tim McGraw


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Sensitive topics (fetal death and rape) discussed in this chapter. The extent of the discussions of fetal death are minimal, but the discussion of rape is much more lengthly. I’ve marked it with ‘<>’ before and after if you’d prefer to skip it.  
> To victims of rape and those who have experienced fetal death: my heart goes out to you all!   
> Disclaimer: each person's feelings and experiences are different, especially when it comes to miscarriage, termination, and rape. what i have written here regarding these topics is strictly for the purpose of this story's plot.   
> A reminder that this story is rated M for sensitive topics.

-April 21, 1997 (the Room of Requirement, continued—again)

_‘It’s your love. It just does somethin’ to me….and if you wonder about the spell I’m under, it’s your love.’ *****_

_‘Now that we’re together, I’m stronger than ever. I’m happy and free.’ *****_

_The reverie burst in the middle of a song with a ‘pop,’ which signaled Kreacher’s return. The young lovers reluctantly broke away, relinquishing their holds on one another slowly, as if they were melting, and not breaking, apart._

Kreacher snapped his fingers and the Room slowly became brighter. Hermione heard the next part of the evening’s surprises before she saw it. A dog barked, and then Draco whistled.

“Hunter, here, boy!”

Hermione eyes adjusted to the light just in time to see an Airedale Terrier bounding into Draco where he squatted on the grassy expanse. Hermione smiled at the happy reunion of boy and dog; she’d never seen Draco happier. He looked younger, _finer_ , and at ease. Draco had a hold of Hunter’s collar with one hand while he scratched his dog’s head with the other.

After a minute of this, Draco stood and said authoritatively, “Sit, Hunter.”

The dog did as told, and then Draco said, “Hunter, friend,” as he pointed to Hermione. Hunter remained quiet but looked at Hermione. “Mione, would you like to meet Hunter?” Draco asked, reaching for her hand hopefully.

Hermione laughed and gave her hand. “Yes, please. I love dogs, but I was never allowed to have one.” She and Draco sat in front of Hunter, whose tail wagged excitedly.

Draco said, “At ease,” and as soon as the words were out, Hunter reached out with his nose and licked Hermione’s face. Hermione squealed in surprise as Draco laughed.

They laughed and played with Hunter for a long while on the magically made replica of the grounds on which Draco had played and grown up and, mostly, trained Hunter. Hermione saw that Hunter was a great dog, which told her that Draco had taken great pains to train him. Hunter was, as his name implied, a hunting dog firstly, but he was also a very loyal and loving companion.

When the teenagers and the dog were worn out, Draco led the two of his loves to the gazebo. Hermione summoned the tablecloth from the dining table and transfigured it into a plush blanket, and the three of them cuddled up on a wide and deep swinging bench, which had plush cushions on the seat and back. The three of them glided, Draco and Hermione lavishing attention on Hunter and snuggling close to one another.

“How did you come to have Hunter, Draco?” Hermione asked.

“Ahh, well,” Draco said as he scratched behind Hunter’s ears, causing the dog to close his eyes with happiness, “ickle Hunter here was a birthday gift. He was a brilliant gift, but also the only one that demanded things of me, to be sure,” Draco chuckled. “Training him was good for me, though. My mother….and father….always trained their own dogs, and so I learned from them. Many people have been surprised to learn that—but even the rich have hobbies. Dogs are my family’s hobby,” Draco said matter-of-factly before his voice turned even less enthusiastic. “My father has a couple of English Mastiffs….Malfoys have raised that breed for a couple of generations now….but my father hasn’t bred them in years,” Draco revealed, speaking quietly about his father.

Hermione just listened, patiently and respectfully, and a little bit in awe, as Draco never had spoken to her of his father before. A short time later, he continued in a happier tone.

“Mother, though, prefers Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, the breed preferred and raised by—”

“Queen Victoria,” Hermione interjected knowingly.

“Of course you knew that, you little swot,” he teased, pulling her in closer to his side and kissing her temple. “Well, she normally has two or three females of breeding age, and so she whelps two or three litters each year, which is great because puppies are always smashing,” Draco said with a vigorous scratch to Hunter’s back.

Hermione wasn’t sure how to phrase her questions, so she timidly asked, “Does your mother do the whelping herself or does she…um….hire some one for that?”

Draco chuckled and nodded in understanding of where Hermione’s thoughts were. “It is hard to imagine my mother—prim, proper, Mrs. Fancy-pants, Wizarding royalty—handling blood and such, isn’t it?”

Hermione, relieved that Draco understood her so well, nodded against Draco’s shoulder as she stroked the soft undercoat of Hunter’s curly brown and black hair.

“Well, she has been whelping for years….since she was a young girl and her dog, Dash, had her first litter. So, she doesn’t need assistance, nor does she want it.”

Hermione smiled, realizing that she finally had a reason to have some respect for Mrs. Malfoy; the ‘Queen of the Wizarding World’ wasn’t all ‘balls and teas and gentility’ after all.

Draco, however, was pensive about another topic.

 _I couldn’t have asked for a better segue_ , he thought, and quietly, he said, “Mione?”

“Yeah?” she responded, smiling as she upturned her head slightly to look up at Draco. Her smile faltered immediately when she saw the seriousness written on Draco’s face. “What’s wrong?” she asked, tensing.

“Nothing is wrong, per se,” he hedged, running a hand through his pale locks, unknowingly mussing his ‘do into the look Hermione loved. “I just want to tell you….The reason Mother takes such avid interest in her dogs….in breeding them and caring for them like they are her children….is because she only has me. She always wanted more children—not a many as the Weasley family, mind you—” he explained with a chuckle. When he sobered again he added, “I was the only child she had who….survived.”

“Oh,” Hermione said in surprise. “I….I’m sorry for her,” she offered timidly, not knowing what else to say.

Draco nodded and caressed her hands in his. “She was pregnant one other time after me—I was ten at the time. She hadn’t been able to conceive in all of that time since I was born, even with the use of potions and spells, apparently.”

Draco’s pale cheeks were colored from the embarrassment of speaking of such personal details about his mother, and Hermione thought his sweet blush was _oh so adorable._

While she remained silent to give him the time he seemed to need, she thought about how easily she had gotten pregnant when not even trying (though she had been under a fertility charm) and how depressing it would be to desperately want a child and not to be able to conceive. Adopting out the twins to people in this situation seemed to be even more of a good idea to her now.

Draco spoke suddenly, bringing her out of her thoughts. “Do you remember me telling you that I knew of a woman who terminated a pregnancy and that I didn’t want to see you go through what she went through?”

Hermione nodded but remained silent, waiting for Draco to continue; she knew how hesitantly he spoke of personal matters and how easily he could withdraw into himself again if uncomfortable.

“Well, that woman was my mother.” He paused for a breath.

<>

“You see, Mother had gone to Muggle London for a concert. Father was supposed to have escorted her, but at the last minute he had some excuse or another, and my mother—being the independent and capable witch that she was—decided to go without him. She stayed late after the concert to meet the famous harpist who was only in London that night for the performance. Well, after meeting the harpist, she went into the lavatory, preparing to apparate home….” Draco paused to swallowed hard, “and some _bastard_ attacked her. Mother said that she tried to fight him off and she cried out, but no other women were in the lavatory. She couldn’t reach her wand in time, and she was overpowered….and completely at his will.”

Hermione had tears in her eyes, utterly shocked and angry on behalf of Draco’s mother. Draco cleared his throat and began again.

“Mother apparated home, very late, bruised and cut….her evening gown ripped. I had stayed up to wait for her, to hear all about the concert. My father hadn’t allowed me to go, you see.” Draco said the last sentence bitterly. Hermione felt him take a huge, slow breath in and let it out even more slowly. “A few weeks later, Mother began to feel ill, and Father summoned our Healer, who discovered that Mother was pregnant. Mother was….so alive again. She had been traumatized, of course, but the fact that she was with child had brought her out of her depression. Father....was not so pleased. He was skeptical that the child was his, and so he took Mother to Knockturn Alley to visit a witch who practiced—uh—well….old magic, of the, uh….the blood variety.....and not of the light variety.”

Pausing his tale (out of what Hermione surmised was discomfort from admitting that his father dabbled in Dark, Blood Magic, which didn’t surprise Hermione at all), Draco ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat before beginning again.

“The witch performed some spell or some rite or something that confirmed my father’s suspicions, and he didn’t take it well. He refused to claim the child….he refused to allow Mother to keep it. She held onto the pregnancy as long as she could, hoping that she could change Father’s decision. He got his way, though, in the end, as always,” Draco spat bitterly (which surprised Hermione immensely).

A moment later, Draco let out a large sigh. “Mother….well, I did not fully comprehend all that was happening at the time, as I was only ten, but I clearly recall how….tortured she was. She was inconsolable and despondent for months.

“Nurturing her dogs helped get her through her times of despair….mostly. Seeing pregnant women and babies….little girls, too, especially blonde ones….tears her up.

“She’s hidden her feelings from my father because he won’t ‘indulge her,’ as he says, but she confides in me. She tells me, ‘I let my daughter go. I let her be taken from me. I let a part of myself go.’ And, that’s exactly how it seems—like a part of her is missing. She’s never been the same witch….mother….wife since, Hermione.”

Hermione was sniffing and wiping her eyes by the time Draco finished his tale. “That’s horrible. Your poor mother,” she said quietly.

“It was horrible for her,” he agreed vehemently, his head nodding as it lay resting on Hermione’s. “I wouldn’t wish that on any witch….any woman.”

<>

As Hermione and Draco sat quietly, both stroking the thick coat of Hunter, who basked in their attention, Hermione compared her own rape and experience thereafter to Mrs. Malfoy’s and pitied the pureblood witch more and more. What Draco’s mother had had forced upon her was loads worse than Hermione’s experience.

After a comfortable quiet, Draco brusquely commanded Hunter, ‘Down,’ and then, ‘Sit,’ and then turned his body to face Hermione, who looked to him questioningly. Looking into her eyes intensely, his hands lightly grasping her forearms, as if to show her how serious he was about the subject, he said, “Hermione….now you can see why I think that you should not give up your children….yeah?”

Hermione truly was speechless—but only for a few moments; it didn’t take long for her indignation to rise up.

_Why is he doing this? Why did he have to go and ruin this perfect date?_

“I thought….that you gave all of that up, Draco?” she said slowly, breathily before attempting, albeit weakly, to shake his hands from her arms as her heart beat faster and her neck and face began heating up. “I thought….that you agreed with me—that there is no other option—that giving them up is best for them….and for me.”

Draco’s grip on her was secure but not forceful as his thumbs lightly rubbed her arms in what he hoped was a soothing manner. His witch was fiery, but he’d learned that touching her could (more often than not) douse her flaming temper. This time, however, she fought his touch, and when she finally extricated her arms from his grip, she slid away from him along the bench. “You, of all people, should understand me wanting to give them to a couple that wants babies….as your mother has for so long!”

Crossing her arms over her body, Hermione stood now, her feelings so stirring that she felt compelled to move in tandem with them. Her ire, her frustration, her breath rate, and the pitch of her voice increased with every word she spoke next. “Why do you think I am so…. _wrong_ to want to do that? What about it is so…. _abhorrent_ to you? Why can’t you validate my reasons for giving them up? I’ve told you from the beginning that I’m not terminating—I’m just _not_ _keeping_ them!”

Through her speech, Draco had remained respectfully silent, but when he saw that she was finished (and breathless, and not any calmer for all that he had tried to make her so), he spoke quietly and calmly—almost in whisper. “I’ve figured out how you can keep them with you, Mione—and still achieve all that you want to.” Excitement glittered in his eyes and pride shown on his face.

After a few moments that seemed like ages to Draco, the fire in Hermione cooled and was replaced by curiosity. Still, she remained silent.

“Hermione,” he ventured, “in the past, I was a git. A…. _foul, loathsome, evil, little cockroach_ , I was once called,” he said with a charming smirk that he knew would further tame her flame. (It did.) “I am trying to make amends for my wrongs against you, and I don’t want you to end up like my mother. Is that so bad? At least hear me out, Mione. Please?”

The last bit of Hermione’s indignation melted completely away at Draco’s sincerity….and at his handsome face…..and at his term of endearment for her. For him, for the sake of their relationship, and out of appreciation for the openness with which he had confided in her about his mother, she decided to acquiesce. She sighed before saying, “I’m all ears, Draco.”

Draco gave her a confused look, but waved it away (thinking, _Must be a Muggle thing_ ). Reaching out for her hand, he invited Hermione to sit down next to him on the swing. As she did, he timidly put his arm around her shoulders, and Hermione responded by turning her body into his slightly. Encouraged, he timidly rested their clasped hands on her bump.

“Right. Well, my plan revolves around two things—the first of which you love, and the second of which I have plenty,” he said haughtily though clearly jesting, chuckling at Hermione’s look of exasperation and raised brows.

“To continue your education, you’ll need help caring for the twins, so the plan is that you _hire_ —don’t forget that I used _that_ word—help, like that witch nanny, Mary Ploppins.”

Hermione had started to interject, but instead giggled at Draco’s mistake; Draco seemed unaware of his blunder and continued. “I happen to know some very responsible, er—nannies—who are highly experienced and who would be very gratified to care for the tots.”

Hermione closed her lids and sighed slowly.

_Rich boys—thinking that money grows on trees and that it solves everything!_

Discerning the basis for Hermione’s agitation, Draco added, “Oh, and I will take care of their pay—which should be negligible, really.”

Not able to hold back any longer, Hermione interjected now. “I couldn’t let you do that, Draco,” she asserted, shaking her head.

“You could,” he responded confidently.

“Draco, I’m certain that paying nannies—even one nanny—would cost thousands of galleons! How could you afford—”

“I’m a Malfoy,” he interrupted, a playful smirk on his face.

Hermione she rolled her eyes at his arrogance, thinking, _Ha! I’m not sure about that being any sort of reassurance, Draco._

He continued. “I turn seventeen next month, at which time I will come into my inheritance from the Black family. Moreover, I have my personal vault at Gringotts, and my mother and father pay for everything I want and need anyhow.”

With an exasperated groan, Hermione argued, “The babies are not your responsibility, Draco! Besides, them being my children would have to remain a secret, and this plan doesn’t exactly allow for that.”

“Ah, but it does,” he replied mischievously. “You see, these nannies, in addition to being very reliable with children—did I mention that?—are also very discreet. And loyal. They would keep your secret and keep the tykes hidden away in the castle.”

“You think that Professor Dumbledore would be open to them making themselves at home at Hogwarts, do you?” she said, her tone edged with sarcasm.

Draco smirked smugly. “They already do.”

“Wha….” was all Hermione was able to utter.

“House elves, Hermione,” he said, and then added quickly to halt Hermione’s objections, “and, as I’ve said, I’ll be _paying_ them—which, incidentally, would further encourage their….discretion.”

Hermione was speechless. Taking advantage, Draco declared, “You have to admit that it solves every problem!”

Hermione huffed.

“These _nannies_ ,” Draco went on, “can live here in the castle with you—in the Head Girl’s dormitory, most likely—” Draco winked at Hermione “—or, in an unused professor’s suite. My preference would be one close to the Dungeons,” he offered in faux nonchalance followed by another wink.

Letting out a tiny laugh, Hermione blushed and her heart skipped at beat at Draco’s last comment. Draco beamed. She had to admit that Draco’s plan did solve all of the problems with keeping the twins—except one.

“Draco, as incredibly generous of you that would be—and as wonderful and thoughtful—and as _ideal_ that scenario would be….and as much as I would appreciate it….I doubt that I will even be allowed to return to school,” she finished dejectedly. “I mean, a teenaged mother attending Hogwarts—this doesn’t happen in the Wizarding world, does it? Children— _babies_ —living in the school? I doubt that Professor Dumbledore—”

“If you and/or the children cannot live in Hogwarts, I’ll get you a place in Hogsmeade, then.”

Hermione’s shock had _nearly_ ever been greater (after all, nothing could quite compare to the other greatest shocks of her life: that she was a witch and that Draco Malfoy fancied her). She just sat there in a stunned silence.

“Furthermore, if you being a mother is a problem for the _Headmaster_ , then he can just go—” Hermione’s eyes widened, and Draco course corrected his train of thought, “—er, well, then the children and their home in Hogsmeade can be kept secret from him. They’ll be kept secret from everyone else already, anyway, at least until….”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the words—the truth. ‘The truth’ was that until _his “Master”_ was stopped, any child of Hermione’s would be in danger. He understood (more than most did, considering his personal circumstances) that ‘the truth’ was a legitimate concern and a huge factor for the basis of Hermione’s opinion that the twins should be adopted out. He did not discount its validity, nor did he blame Hermione for fearing for her children; but he was confident that he had found a better way.

“Mione, please let me do this? I want to do it, and I….” he trailed off before he practically whispered, “I’m begging you to let me, Mione.”

_Draco Malfoy begging?_

Unbelieving, she stared at him….at the sincerity and hope in his eyes….at the expression of those same emotions on his perfect, pale face. His plea struck at her core. Minutes passed, and when she finally responded, a rational answer (one of which was blaring in her mind like the screams of Mandrakes) was not what left her lips. Almost as if she were bewitched, she could not think of acting in any way but that for which he wished, and so when she answered Draco, she spoke contrarily to her true feelings.

And she felt downright despicable doing it.

“I’ll let you,” she whispered with a sad smile.

Draco blinked twice and then kissed her—keenly. When they finally came up for air, Draco was grinning his elusive, ‘real’ smile. He looked ‘over the moon,’ and his glee was contagious, despite her misgivings about his plan. Again, they kissed, sitting on the swinging bench, and lost in their own little world.

Despite herself, she found herself becoming lost Draco’s daydream, imaging this version of her future that Draco had just created for her—which she had not before considered possible. It was a _very_ nice dream, she thought while sighing into Draco’s mouth, but a dream nonetheless.


	13. Chapter 13

-April 21, 1997 (Room of Requirement continued—again)

When they could no longer kiss due to lack of oxygen (and not for lack of trying), they had to break apart, and Hermione was wrenched from her daydream. After regaining his breath, Draco cleared his throat and hollered again for Kreacher.

With a snap, Kreacher turned the Room into a new venue, and Hermione’s eyes went wide as she took it all in, slowly turning in a circle before she returned to Draco. 

“A nursery?”

Draco nodded. “Yes. This is the nursery at the Manor.”

Hermione was amazed; it was posh, of course, in design and decoration. There were two fireplaces in the room, which was thrice the size of Hermione’s larger-than-average bedroom at home. The nursery was equipped with two child-sized four-poster beds with luxurious bedding and two cradles, two stuffed rocking chairs with ottomans, and a few children’s toys. The floor was covered in a thick, plush rug that Hermione couldn’t help but relish in; she was glad she had ditched her shoes earlier in the evening. Heavy curtains hung over the numerous tall windows, but the room itself was still light and cheerful due to the amount of light that poured in from the windows and due to the wall colors. Beautiful scenes were obviously expertly painted on the walls in pastel colors. There were four scenes total: a lush garden; the seaside; a forest with animals that were charmed to move around within the bushes and trees; and a medieval castle (complete with a mote) and dragons that hovered around the castle, breathing fire as they flew. Two beautiful, though not ornate, chandeliers hung from the ceiling, which depicted a night sky, complete with constellations, a moon, and shooting stars.

“I thought that you might want to see the nursery at the Manor for inspiration when decorating your children’s nursery.”

“Oh, heavens, no! This is much too extravagant!” Hermione said immediately and slightly reprovingly.

A tiny frown appeared on Draco’s face, but before he could reply, Hermione spoke again.

“This is the nursery from your home? I mean, this room still exists there, or this is just what the nursery you had as a child looked like?”

“Both,” Draco said. “Except I told Kreacher to ask the Room to put in two of everything because you—ever the overachiever, Granger—are having two babies, not just one,” he added with a tiny smile.

At the moment, a crack of apparition sounded. Kreacher appeared with a tray of refreshments: a small flute of Pumpkin juice and a small flute of champagne. “For your toast, Master Draco,” Kreacher said with a bow, keeping the try perfectly balanced as he did so.

Hermione smirked and raised her brows, putting a hand on her hip. “You were pretty confident, were you?” she teased as she tilted her head toward Draco’s champagne flute.

“Cheeky minx,” Draco muttered before he dismissed Kreacher. Handing Hermione her pumpkin juice, he said, “To you getting the life you want.”

 _The life I want_ , Hermione mentally repeated in a morose internal tone.

As they clunked their flutes together, Hermione had to tear her eyes away from Draco. She drank down the juice until it was gone and then found Draco staring at her. She stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. Because of the size of her belly, getting close to him was difficult, so after the chaste kiss, Draco turned her where she stood so that he was hugging her from behind. She responded by leaning into him, and he wrapped one large, pale Seeker’s hand around her and caressed her Slytherin green clad swell. Hermione sighed with pleasure.

 _I won’t have this—any of Draco’s offer—but it’s the thought that counts,_ she ruminated, _and this thought—his offer—is amazing!_ _How_ _did I get so lucky?_ she asked herself. _How is it that I’m dating a guy who would sacrifice so much to care for me and some other guy’s children? And how bizarre that he’s Draco Malfoy of all people?_

After a few pensive minutes, she quietly said, “Thank you, Draco. Thank you for caring about me and the babies and thank you for wanting to help….It means more than I can say.”

Draco kissed her temple. “I simply want you to be safe and happy, Mione,” Draco said, his breathy words tickling her ear. “No regrets, yeah?”

Hermione closed her eyes and nodded certainly. “Right. No regrets.” Although their words were the same, she knew that their intents when saying them were completely opposite, but she didn’t want to dwell on that now.

While continuing to admire the lovely, extravagant nursery that Draco had required of the Room (and feeling more sadness than she would have expected over the fact that she would not be using a nursery at all), Hermione snuggled into Draco’s embrace, their hands now clasping one another’s on her swollen abdomen.

“Draco, we can call it a night, if you’d like,” she said when she heard Draco yawn, although she didn’t truly want to end the (what she once would have described as ‘magical,’ ironically) date.

After a moment, he sighed and said, “That would probably be best. But first, I have one more surprise. Close your eyes.” Draco once again summoned Kreacher, who used his magic to require from the Room a new setting.

When Hermione had been instructed to, she opened her eyes. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and to fully take in what Draco had required. She asked, “Is this part of your home, too?”

Draco tried not to laugh and settled for a smile instead. “No. This room is a replica from one of my mother’s family’s estates….from the Rosier side—that’s my mother’s mother. To me it always seemed….comfortable—much more so than the Manor or the Slytherin Dormitory.”

“Indeed,” declared Hermione, stepping away from Draco’s embrace to look around.

The room was large with a wood floor that was obviously old but well cared for. The walls were painted in a light color but were intricately textured, making them look like they were papered. Hermione noted one window, which was covered by heavy draperies the color of the walls. There was a huge, grand fireplace, which was already lit with a magical fire and was surrounded by tiny, shimmering, light blue porcelain tiles and topped by an ornate wooden mantel that looked distressed like the floors. The massive, beautiful mantel was adorned with a large, gilded, curvy mirror and lit candles. In front of the fireplace was a large chaise lounge covered in baby blue velvet. Soft light was emitted from candles in an elegant chandelier that hung over the bed, which was opposite the fireplace. Exposed stone on the exterior wall was whitewashed, and exposed beams decorated the vaulted ceiling. The room’s architecture included several alcoves, furnished with comfortable chaises and small tables. The bed was large; it was made of substantial-looking metal that curved in a ‘m’ shape at the head and foot and had tiny details, giving it a feminine mien.

A touch embarrassed to be in such a gorgeous bedroom and romantic setting alone with Draco, Hermione was blushing. “This is a pretty room,” she lamely said, mentally cursing her lameness.

“You like it, then?” Draco asked. Hermione nodded enthusiastically, and he looked relieved.

“Excellent. I was worried that I’d have to show you to the room that is decorated all in red and gold,” he said, rolling his eyes but smiling.

“Red and gold?” Hermione asked with wide eyes? “Gryffindor colors in a Rosier residence?” She’d read about the Rosier family: Slytherins and followers of Voldemort or Grindelward, the lot of them.

“Yeah, odd, isn’t it?” Draco asked. “Right. So, you take the bed; I can sleep on the chaise.”

With more than a bit of nervousness, Hermione said, “Draco, we’ve slept next to each other before. I don’t mind sharing with you.” And in a rush, she added, “Besides, this bed is gigantic!”

Just what he had hoped for! Draco couldn’t contain his glee; he nodded and grinned. “The bathroom is there,” he pointed, “and it actually works. More magic of Kreacher’s,” he explained. “Kreacher!”

With a pop, Kreacher appeared. “Yes, Master Draco? How can I serve the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?”

Hermione almost faked a gag.

“Hermione and I require pajamas. Silk. And water goblets and towels.” Turning to Hermione he asked, “Anything else you want, Mione?”

“Cocoa butter lotion for my belly, please, Kreacher. It’s on my nightstand in my dorm. Oh, and please tell Harry that I am completely safe in the Castle and that I will not be returning to Gryffindor Tower tonight.” She decided that she didn’t care what Harry thought; he already knew she’d been sleeping away from her dorm before tonight, so what was another incident?

Draco smirked at that and stood a bit straighter, knowing that Potter would be furious; he always happy to be the cause of the ire of the ‘Boy Who Lived.’

“Kreacher,” he said. “Under no circumstances are you to take orders from Potter if he intends for you to bother Hermione and me tonight.”

Kreacher nodded, bowed, and disapparated, returning about five minutes later carrying a tray with everything requested of him.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione said. The elf grumbled under his breath something unintelligible.

“You are dismissed, Kreacher, but continue to stay on the premises in case I require your assistance,” Draco commanded.

“Yes, sir, Master Draco, sir. It be Kreacher’s honor to serve the Black heir,” Kreacher said with a deep bow before disapparating again.

“You do realize that that display of worship bothers me?” Hermione said lightly as she levitated her water glass to herself. “I feel guilty every time I ask elves to do something.”

“You’ll get used to it,” was Draco’s flippant reply as he headed for the bathroom to change. Hermione tsk’ed at him as he strolled to the bathroom. When the door was shut and the shower turned on, she changed into her button-up, black silk pajamas—the most luxurious thing she’d ever worn. She then sat on the chaise lounge, drinking two full glasses of water. _Good thing the toilet works in here._ _I’ll probably be up five times tonight._

When Draco emerged from the loo, he saw Hermione’s pajama top open below her breasts as she was applying lotion to her bump.

_I’m going to need another cold shower._

Hermione looked up, and, catching him staring, grinned mischievously; he raised a brow, attempting to disguise his lusty thoughts. “Cocoa butter is thought to decrease the likelihood of stretch marks, which happen as my skin is rapidly stretched by the growth of these two moppets,” she explained jovially. Draco was about to volunteer to help when Hermione began buttoning her shirt.

“Leave it open?” he asked impulsively, blushing fiercely when he realized he’d been so brazen. “I mean open to just expose your belly?” He mumbled quietly, flushing further.

Hermione blushed as well and nodded, unbuttoning her shirt up to the top of the bump before climbing into the bed. Laying on her left side, she placed a pillow between her knees. Draco slithered in, facing her, his right hand drawing ever so faintly on the firm bump.

Hermione, playing with the bottom hem of one side of her unbuttoned top, asked, “What did Kreacher mean when he called you the Black heir? I mean….your mother and your aunt are still alive—wouldn’t they be heiresses before you would be a heir?”

If the question surprised Draco, he didn’t show it; he simply nodded in understanding. "Yes, well, normally that would be the case; however, upon the death of my Black grandparents, their fortune was withheld from distribution per their will. My mother and my aunt had already received their inheritances upon their marriages; what was left of the Black Estate, then, was set aside for any grandchildren, and as I am the only one, I am the heir of the Estate.”

Hermione nodded, reasoning that, technically, Draco was not the only heir. Hermione’s friend and fellow Order member Nymphadora Tonks was also the grandchild of Draco’s grandparents on the Black Family side. Suddenly, she realized that the money Draco would be inheriting—the money he wanted to spend on her and her children—in a few weeks on his seventeenth birthday should, by right of birth, belong to Andromeda Tonks, Draco’s Aunt, and to Nymphadora. She, again, felt determined to not accept Draco’s money.

Draco was chattering on about the replica house that he’d requested of the Room when Hermione’s thoughts came full circle back to the present. Unbeknownst to her, Draco’s ramblings were his attempt to temper his hormones; laying in an actual bed with her for the first time and her degree of undress under her pajamas was highly distracting to him.

A loud gasp from Hermione had him startled and his attention diverted, however. “What?” he asked her, sitting up and reaching for his wand, which he’d tucked into his pajama pants pocket.

“I felt a kick!” Hermione exclaimed, sitting up slightly. “I’ve felt tiny flutters of movement before, but this time was an actual kick—OH! There was another!” She grabbed Draco’s hand and placed it on her abdomen where she’d felt the movements. There was nothing for a minute, and Draco began to doubt her until he, too, felt a strong, swift ‘kick,’ as his lady called it.

Hermione was in awe, and to Draco, she had never looked more enchanting. Still, he was confused. “Why are they ‘kicking’?”

“I just drank a lot of water and juice before that, and I’ve been laying on my left side; that must be why they are so active now. They are ‘kicking’—stretching or turning or other such movements, really—because they are healthy and getting nutrients and oxygen. It’s definitely a good thing,” she assured him.

Draco nodded along, his worry dissipating with each word Hermione spoke. They both continued to feel for the movement of the babies beneath their hands, and sooner rather than later, sleep came to them both, satisfied smiles on their faces.

Draco slept better than he’d had in months.

~

Hermione _did_ end up using the toilet five times that night—plus one more. Each time, she was afraid of disturbing and waking Draco, but he slept so soundly that she wondered if he’d taken a Sleeping Draught. Upon her return each time, she snuggled close to him; he seemed cold (at least, that’s what she told herself). Even in the large bed, Draco slept in the middle, probably used to large beds and never having had to share, Hermione supposed. She lay behind him and wished that her body could be flush with his backside, but alas, her bump was an effective impediment to that desire. Of course, there were times when she snuggled her back into his front, and felt him wrap his arms around her waist—her naked belly—fingers splayed on her ribs, his large hand gripping her silk pajama-covered hip.

She fell asleep after each trek to the loo listening to the crackling in the magically, perpetually-lit hearth and feeling the steady, slow, rhythmic breaths of Draco’s deep sleep. Wrapped up in the same coverings and laying in the same bed as Draco, she felt so at peace and so protected, unlike any other time in her life. She wondered if this comforting companionship between her and Draco would be possible any other nights; if it were possible beyond the magic of the Room, the division that was Hogwarts School, and the turmoil that was the Wizarding world.

~

The numerous bathroom trips that interrupted Hermione’s sleep during the night caught up with her in the morning, and so when Draco woke and saw her sleeping so soundly, he wondered if she’d taken a Sleeping Draught.

He sat in a nearby chair with his feet propped up on the bed and watched her sleep for a while. Her hair was in utter disarray—more than usual—but to him, she looked beautiful. Even her stomach—large and round as it was instead of tiny and flat—appealed to him. While gazing at it, the lives that lay within it running through his mind, he saw movement; a tiny bump emerged from the larger round bump that was Hermione’s belly. The small bump glided along within the larger one before disappearing. It wasn’t long until another shape emerged from the convex plane, but this time, the shape wasn’t so round. It was longer than it was wide. _A foot, perhaps?_ Draco wondered. So intrigued was he that he hastily slid from the chaise to the bed where he stroked the baby’s….what ever it was. After a few strokes of his cold fingers on the mysterious shape, it disappeared before a sharp blow to the same spot at which it had just been. Draco’s fingers felt the swift ‘kick,’ and he grinned. He sat there for a long while, waiting for more (for naught) until he heard a giggle.

  
“It seems they are taking a break for now, but after I eat or drink something cold, they may be persuaded to go another round,” Hermione said, ending with a yawn. “Morning,” she said with a smile.

Draco gave a small smile back, the tiniest amount of embarrassment at being caught showing on his cheeks. Standing, he replied, “Morning, Mione,” before he placed a kiss on her forehead. Abruptly, he walked to the large double doors of the bedroom. When just outside the bedroom, with his hand still on the door knob, as if he just had opened the door to the room, he explained, “It wouldn’t do for Kreacher to think we’d slept together,” in flippant tone before he realized that he’d made a faux pas, using a phrase with a double-meaning. He immediately blushed. “That is, ah, that we’d shared a bed,” he clarified, trying to feign nonchalance.

Hermione laughed. “Oh, sharing is inappropriate, but actual sleeping together is sanctioned?” she teased.

Draco blushed deeper. “Kreacher!” he hollered.

Instantly, Kreacher appeared at Draco’s side in the hallway.

“Yes, Sir? How may Kreacher serve Master Black?”

Draco glanced at Hermione, who was still giggling over his embarrassment, and gave a small, smug smile in return. 

“Kreacher, _your mistress,”_ Draco winked at Hermione (who rolled her eyes but smirked) before he continued,“will be requiring a large, healthy breakfast and cold pumpkin juice, and I will have a Full English with coffee and cream and pumpkin juice.”

“And tea, please!” Hermione put in as she made her way to the loo. Draco nodded to Kreacher and dismissed him with a careless wave.

Once dressed and each having showered in separate bathrooms (without the inconvenience of low water pressure or of less-than-hot water, Hermione mused, marveling at Magic) the hungry (and malnourished) boy and the equally hungry (and pregnant) girl descended the stairs to the dinning room.

Kreacher already had returned with everything that had been requested of him and he began to serve the couple. The dinning room was decorated in the same cottage style that Hermione could see the lounge was decorated in as well, and she thought them charming.

Draco ate so quickly that he ordered Kreacher to bring more while Hermione was still eating. She was pleased he was eating so well and gave him an adoring smile; Draco beamed and ate every morsel of his firsts and seconds.

Kreacher cleaned up after the meal, and Draco and Hermione busied themselves with the necessary task of kissing and cuddling on a wide chair in the lounge. The twins did, indeed, move around some more, and their movements enraptured and entertained Hermione and Draco, who tried to determine what body part and from what twin they were seeing. The teens marveled at how developed the twins must be to be so active and strong. Hermione suggested that Draco come to her next prenatal appointment with Madam Pomfrey so that he could see them in the womb; Draco readily accepted.

Much too soon, the couple had to retreat from their sanctuary and part ways. Hermione flitted off to her studies and friends while Draco made a loop in the corridors until he was once again standing in front of the Room, requiring it to provide the Room of Hidden Things. He had to find a way to fix the Cabinet; his mother was counting on him, and now so was Hermione—plus her children—and he was determined to not let any of them down.

~

Writing to one another through their journals was the only way Hermione and Draco could manage to make contact over the next few weeks. May began, and Hermione was finding herself very busy. Luckily, she had loads more energy now than she’d had in the first trimester of her pregnancy, and she was determined to make the most of it. Final exams were approaching, and in addition to her self-imposed grueling revision schedule, she was also occupied with a bit of side research that was time consuming; the ‘Half-blood Prince’ was proving to be elusive, and she was frustrated. Writing to Draco was the one way she could unwind except for singing (which she could only bring herself to do in the shower).

Draco had been making small gains on repairing the Vanishing Cabinet, but was frustrated with his results, too. Writing to Hermione was an effective remedy, as was listening to her sing to him from his wand, but it just wasn’t what he really needed. He needed her touch as well as her voice; he needed her smile as well as her words. So, for the next two weeks, he was pretty miserable and a ‘right bastard,’ according to Blaise Zabini.

~

-May 16, 1997 (morning)

True to his word, Draco accompanied Hermione to her twenty-two week appointment, which was held during a break in between classes for both Hermione and Draco. Madam Pomfrey was more than accommodating (and seemed very happy to be so), Draco thought, to include him in the first place, but to also work with both his and Hermione’s schedules to find a good time for the appointment. Also, Pomfrey held the appointment in her office, and not just in a curtained-off area of the Hospital Wing, for extra privacy.

The Magical Ultrasound proved fascinating to Draco. He tried to maintain composure, but he couldn’t help but show his wonder at the image of the twins as they moved around inside of Hermione. He even thought one of the twins had Hermione’s nose, and when he voiced that opinion, she said with a chuckle, “Better my nose than my hair.”

He studied the faces of the twins the best he could, hoping that they would resemble a face from Hogwarts well enough that he’d be able to determine who the father was; he was disappointed to find out that it was not as easy as he’d thought, despite the images of the babies being three-dimensional.

Draco still had no leads as to who had raped Hermione, but he was still pursuing the perpetrator. He was just as determined to make the bastard pay as he’d originally been—probably even more so now that his feelings for Hermione had increased.

When Pomfrey determined that all looked well from inside the womb, she asked Hermione if she’d like to know the babies’ genders. Hermione was flustered.

“You can tell? Already? I couldn’t make out anything,” she murmured as she stared at the Healer.

Madam Pomfrey nodded with a tiny smile. “It’s difficult unless you know exactly what you’re supposed to be seeing,” she said kindly.

 _How could that not be obvious?_ _It’s either one or the other,_ Draco thought (though he hadn’t seen anything definitive either).

Hermione pensively bit her lip for a few moments. “Thank you, but no; I don’t want to know the genders,” she confidently declared.

Madam Pomfrey gave her a strange look, but nodded. Draco, however, exclaimed, “What? How can you not want to find out? Even I’ve been anxious to know.”

Hermione simply shrugged. “Knowing now won’t change anything. Besides, won’t waiting make the birth that much better?”

Draco couldn’t counter that argument, so he ceased trying (just as Hermione had conjectured); the Healer, however, did not.

“Oh, but if you know now, you can buy baby items in either girl or boy colors—or both,” she said enthusiastically. “And it wouldn’t hurt to know when deciding on names for the twins!” she added. “Naming your children can be difficult.”

Draco’s feelings on the matter were fortified, but Hermione frowned. “I’d rather it be a surprise,” she said tersely.

Both Draco and Pomfrey looked disappointed, but nodded; Hermione was the boss here, after all.

“See you at dinner then?” Hermione asked Draco hopefully at the end of the appointment as she was re-buttoning the bottom half of her school shirt and performing the Concealment Charm.

Draco hesitated before he responded; he actually hadn’t planned to attend dinner. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to incur the ire of my lady, now would I?” he replied with a grin.

Hermione laughed. “I know your mischievous tone when I hear it, Draco Malfoy,” she said as she stood up on her toes to kiss him in the privacy of the Healer’s office. Draco’s lips hungrily met hers, his hands steadying her at her elbows; she never was the most agile witch, and her pregnant belly was not helping in that regard at all. They kissed and clung to each other until they heard an ‘ahem’ from the door. Hermione blushed as Draco smiled wickedly, and they stole one more kiss before Draco exited, saying jauntily to Pomfrey, “A good day to _you_ , Madam.”

Giggling, Hermione watched his fine form stroll down the long corridor of the Wing while Madam Pomfrey sighed and muttered something about ‘besotted young ones’ as she walked to her office.

~

-May 16, 1997 (afternoon)

It was almost time for students to begin to make their way to the Great Hall for dinner when the door to one of the Seventh Year boys’ dormitories slammed shut. Standing in front of that door was one of the Sixth Year boys—the most formidable one, at that. The room became dead silent—even the Seventh Years stopped their raucousness.

“Deigning to grace us with your presence?” Blaise Zabini drawled as he addressed the newcomer. “To what do we owe the honor?”

A Seventh Year boy, Salazar Mulciber, patted his shirt pocket gently and smirked, saying, “You’ve come for the goods, too, then, yeah?” A small, corked vial peeked out from the top of the pocket. “I wondered when you’d grow tired of all that hoity-toity ‘Malfoys remain pure for their spouses’ shite and join in the fun.”

Draco’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. He was proud of his virginal status; nevertheless, it was the road less traveled, and it definitely had its bumps, which were made worse by jibes from other blokes.

“Or perhaps you came just for the stories, eh, Malfoy?” Another Slytherin taunted. A few of the boys laughed at this, only fueling Draco’s fire.

He yelled, “Your filthy words are being heard throughout this whole corridor of dormitories, and the ickle wizards around here don’t need to be scarred for life from hearing about your devious sexual escapades! Keep this door closed and use a Silencing Charm!”

“Apologies, Draco,” mumbled Gregory Goyle. Vincent Crabbe nodded emphatically next to Goyle. Of all of the boys in the room, those two seemed to be the most apologetic—as well as anxious—to Draco.

“What is all this?” Draco asked with an indifferent wave of his hand, indicating the vials he now realized were littering a bed the boys were standing around.

“Nothin’,” Crabbe volunteered instantly. Greg elbowed him in his beefy ribs.

Stone-faced, Draco sauntered over to his two minions. The crowd of boys around the bed separated to form a path for Draco to Crabbe and Goyle. The two boys in question backed up as much as they could, and a few of the others attempted to leave the room altogether.

“Yaxley! Burke! Fawley! I did not give you permission to leave!” Draco spat. The offenders ceased their exit. Draco grabbed a handful of vials and inspected them. The contents of each vial appeared to be the samet. Some vials bore two letters as their only markings, but some weren’t labeled at all. As Draco further inspected, he saw that several of the vials littering the bed the boys were all standing around had ‘DM’ written on them.

Draco looked up from the vials to Zabini, who glared back but curtly shook his head. Draco’s glare then met Mulciber, who smirked back and also shook his head, but in a much more taunting way. Then a disturbing thought occurred to him, and as he turned to Crabbe and Goyle, he hoped that his suspicions were unfounded.

“Greg, Vin—is this what I think it is?” he asked with gritted teeth.

The dumb duo just looked down at their shoes, and Draco had his answer. “This one says ‘DM’? Is that me?”

“Demand is high for yours! You’re the best seller, Draco!” Goyle said enthusiastically. “We’ll cut you in, I swear! You can have all of the proffers from the ones with your hair!”

Heat rose from Draco’s neck to his forehead. He loosened his tie. “It’s ‘profits,’ not ‘proffers,’ you imbecile, and I do not want any money!” he roared, throwing the vials he still held in his hands across the room. “Who’d you sell mine to—who has used MINE?” He had Goyle (the smarter and also the smaller of his minions) by the collar now and he shoved him against a wall.

“A—a—a few blokes!” Goyle shrieked like a little girl.

“Names! Now!” Draco growled.

“We, uh, will have to ask our, uh, sellers—but we’ll find out, Malfoy, swear!” Crabbe croaked.

“There can’t be more than twenty chaps who’ve bought yours, Draco!” Goyle added.

Draco paled and released Goyle—not because he was any less angry but because he was _livid_.

“You mean you’ve been selling Polyjuice Potion made with _my_ hair and you haven’t known to where it’s going?” Draco screeched incredulously.

Crabbe and Goyle looked a bit confused but nodded their heads. The look they received from Draco was worse than any they’d ever encountered before, and they both cringed in apprehension of what was to come.

Draco grabbed for bottles that lay on the bed and then threw them viciously at the stone wall next to his dolts-for-friends.

“Oi, Malfoy!” Goyle shouted as a few boys reached for any bottle they could save from being destroyed in Draco’s rampage.

Draco’s attention snapped up to Goyle. He pulled his wand so fast that none of the boys had time to react, including Goyle, who was promptly hit with a stinging hex. Goyle screamed so loud that a younger Slytherin wizard opened the heavy wooden door and poked his head in to investigate.

“Get out!” Draco yelled, ending the hex on Goyle. The door was hastily shut. Draco next rounded on the rest of the Slytherins in the room.

“Who used mine?” Draco roared again, using his wand as a pointer, pointing it at each individual deviant in the room. No one confessed. “What have you done with them? WELL?!”

Zabini finally responded, using his finger to indicate the boys in the room, “Not all of us have bought them, but quite a few blokes from all houses have. Of all of the chaps I know of who’ve bought some, only some have fessed up to using them. Those who have…. _regaled_ us with their stories of their…. _imbibing_ have reported mostly just messing with people—you know, physical fights and taunting, getting revenge. But there has been….lascivious stuff, too.”

Draco saw red. “ _Lascivious stuff_? You mean like RAPE?!” he roared, thinking of his girlfriend. “Did you hear the tale of what someone did with one of _mine_?” Draco seethed, his voice dangerously low. When no boy was forthcoming, Draco continued. “He raped a girl! Do you understand that, you thick trolls?” By the end he was screaming again, furious at what had happened to Hermione—and probably other girls, he rationalized with the tiniest portion of his brain—because of these idiots. His _friends_.

No one said a word. Guilty faces—a few boys went red-faced, a few looked at the floor, some shifted in unease—were all that he got in response.

Draco knew that if he stayed he’d do more than scream and hex, and he did not want to be a murderer. Walking backwards to the door, he pointed at each boy there and declared, “You all are sick! And you two,” he bellowed at Crabbe and Goyle, “You. Are. Done. You hear me? This stops now!” Draco’s voice was hoarse now from all of his yelling, but he vehemently continued. “And you two dolts get me a list of names of EVERYONE who bought mine, understand? I want that list tonight!”

Draco waited for Crabbe and Goyle to provide confirmation that they understood before opening and then slamming the dormitory door. He stood fuming in the corridor, running his hands through his hair. He was hot and sweaty. His already-loosened tie was feeling too tight again. He took it off and ran to the dormitory room he shared with his lackeys….his foolish, brainless, friends.

He quickly went to his trunk for his stash, which he had instructed the fools to steal; not much of the original looted lot was still there. Prior to today, his stash had only been used to transform Crabbe and Goyle to suit his purposes; their use of it beyond that had not even crossed his mind as a remote possibility. He viciously smashed all of the bottles from in his trunk. Next, he checked Crabbe and Goyle’s trunks. They had locking spells on them, but that was no obstacle for someone of his talents. Draco smashed every vial and every container he found between Crabbe and Goyle’s two trunks, wardrobes, bedside tables, and boxes under their beds—he even checked the mattresses; there was a lot of Poyjuice found between the caches of the two of them, and he wondered how much had already been sold and used.

He growled in anger and shot off spells, breaking things all around the room, at his own foolishness in telling the goons of the Polyjuice potion in Professor Slughorn’s storeroom in the first place. It was his own fault that Crabbe and Goyle even had the potion, and he— _HE_ —was just as much to blame! He was a deviant. He was guilty of rape. Because of him, his own girlfriend had been raped!

At the thought of all of this, he vomited on the floor.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, what do you think?!  
> Thanks for reading!   
> I'm so sorry for the delay in posting! I'm packing and cleaning like a mad woman for an upcoming move during this, the most busy time of year! I really may be a mad woman before it's over! BUT i've got a ton of chapters already written, and i'll not abandon this story!  
> love you all!


	14. chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE AFTERMATH OF WHAT MAY GO DOWN IN WIZARDING HISTORY AS "THE POLYJUICE SCANDAL", HEE HEE.   
> MORE MYSTERIES AHEAD.

-May 16, 1997  
Draco left his vomit mess and all of the destruction caused by his rampage and stormed out of his room, out of the dormitory, out of the Slytherin Common Room, and out of the dungeons. He flew through the corridors of the castle. Turmoil reigned in his mind, and he had to rid himself of his thoughts. He had to speak to someone. He made his way to the fifth floor and then to the girls’ bathroom. Moaning Myrtle’s haunt. There, he confessed his sins to a girl—a Muggleborn who was killed by his own ‘master’, ironically—who lent her sympathetic ear and told him that she cared. Lamentably, she just wasn’t the girl—the right girl—whom he truly wanted to be with at that moment….but then, he couldn’t be this honest with her, could he? 

~

Hermione didn’t see Draco the rest of the day after their appointment with Madam Pomfrey. He’d been absent from classes, though this had been occurring more and more often in the past few weeks, she reminded herself. He had been looking paler, thinner, and more tired recently, too. Earlier that week, Harry had even commented on the change in Draco’s appearance and demeanor.   
He’s lost his usual smugness and his pompous swagger, he’d told her. He looks….woeful, Harry had said.  
So, when Ron declared that he was going to stop off at the seventh floor Prefects’ bathroom to throw up (he was so nervous about the upcoming Quidditch match that he was making himself sick), before heading to the Great Hall, Hermione stated that she was going to go speak with Professor Vector regarding Arithmancy. She left Harry (who was blatantly unperturbed at being left alone) staring at his Map. She was tempted to ask him if he saw Draco on the Map, but she decided against it; she didn’t want another fight to break out between them. Things between them had already been tense lately because of her “tutoring” of Draco (not to mention their ongoing friction over the ‘Half-blood Prince’).  
She thought about what potions Madam Pomfrey may have on hand that could possibly be helpful to Draco’s current state of health as she knew it as she made her way to her true destination: the Hospital Wing.  
Hermione saw the Healer, who looked oddly harried, before the Healer saw her. Hermione had never seen her like that. Stern? Definitely. Annoyed? Yes. Distressed? No. Beyond the Healer, Hermione noticed that a section of the Wing was curtained off adjacent to Pomfrey’s office, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Draco was in there.   
“Miss Granger!” the Madam said impatiently, startling Hermione out of her thoughts. “Are you alright?” she hurriedly asked, pointing to Hermione’s abdomen.   
“Oh! No, I’m fine! I was wondering—” she began politely before being cut off.   
“Alright, then, dear, you’ll have to come back,” the Matron said as she began to bustle off to the back of the Wing. “I’ve got….an emergency here.”  
Hermione interjected, “Is that Draco?”   
As she kept walking away from her, Madam Pomfrey said over her shoulder, “No, dear.”  
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She stayed there in the Wing, hoping to be able to speak with Pomfrey soon.   
It wasn’t long before her body was telling her that it was high time to provide some nourishment to herself and the twins, so she gave up on waiting for Pomfrey and started toward the Wing’s exit. Her hand was reaching for the door when it opened forcefully, nearly knocking her down as a sea of billowing black rushed past her. An instant later, Hermione realized that the person rushing in was Professor Snape and that he was carrying a body. Snape laid the person quickly but carefully on a bed, and as he did so, Hermione let out an earsplitting shriek.   
Draco’s clothes were dripping wet. His button-up uniform shirt, normally white, was stained pink in some areas and a dark red in others; it looked like it was tie-dyed. His normally white-blonde hair was wet and tinged pink, too. He was deathly pale.   
Hermione was at Draco’s bedside and holding his hand in hers in mere seconds. He was unconscious, presumably from the blood loss, Hermione guessed, but possibly from a spell.   
Had he an accident? Had he been dueling? Had he discovered the identity of her attacker and this was the result of their confrontation?  
“What happened to him?” she demanded of her professor before realizing that he was muttering spells. Snape glared and her and curled his lips at her in disgust, but she was not intimidated enough to leave Draco’s bedside. At her continued presence, which Snape obviously did not expect nor understand, he gave her a questioning look while still muttering spells (or spell, singular, as Hermione had no idea what it was that he was incanting). Hermione’s eyes didn’t meet Snape's, however; they were singularly focused on Draco’s face.  
“Pomfrey, daft girl,” Snape growled between incantations and swipes of his wand. Hermione nodded and ran (as fast as her pregnant belly would allow) to fetch the Healer.   
“Madam!” she cried when she was almost to the curtained off area Pomfrey had headed into earlier. “Madam, Draco Malfoy is hurt badly!” she said, now out of breath as she stood outside the curtained area. She heard nothing. A quick run into the Madam’s office revealed that the healer was not there either. Hermione frantically checked the Hospital storeroom and the Madam’s private living quarters. Pomfrey was nowhere to be found, and Hermione’s heart was racing from more than just her small bout of physical exercise.  
Hermione ran back out into the Wing, where she could hear Snape calling out for Pomfrey. She stopped near the curtained off area, looking around wildly for Pomfrey. Hermione was sick with worry over Draco, and so she did what needed to be done. Without a second thought, she pulled the curtain back just enough to peer into the partitioned area before she called out for the Madam.   
What she saw temporarily made for forget about her quest for the Healer, forget about her bloodied boyfriend, and forget her own name. She was shocked and intrigued at the same time. Madam Pomfrey was indeed inside, sitting at the bedside of a patient—the Head Girl, Cho Chang—as the patient’s friend—Marietta Edgecombe—held the patient’s hand. Now Hermione understood what Pomfrey’s ‘emergency’ was—but she couldn’t help but feel that Draco was in more desperate need of her attention and skills; Cho was very much alive.   
“Madam! Professor Snape needs you—now—Draco Malfoy is bleeding—heavily—and unconscious—and so very pale!”  
Pomfrey gave Hermione a stern look for her intrusion, but Hermione noted the way Pomfrey’s expression changed at Hermione’s description of Draco. She nodded at Hermione and hastily instructed Marietta to fetch her if anything changed with Cho.  
“Come, Miss Granger,” Pomfrey said in a clipped tone as she and Hermione exited the partitioned area that was Cho’s ‘room’ and headed to Draco’s side. As she went, Pomfrey summoned items from the storeroom; potions and bandages and other supplies flew to her as she stood at Draco’s bedside. Pomfrey performed a magical assessment with her wand while Snape repetitively murmured a spell. Draco’s shirt remained on him but was unbuttoned and fully open now. Hermione gasped and then whimpered when she saw Draco’s many lacerations and fresh and congealed blood smearing his pale, toned chest. She barely registered the voices of the two adults.  
“What happened? What spell is this?” Madam Pomfrey demanded of Snape as she worked quickly.   
“This is the effect of Sectum Sempra—a curse—cast by none other than The Chosen One,” spat Snape, making sure to inflect hatred into the words that were Harry’s moniker.  
Madam Pomfrey gasped as her eyes and Hermione’s shot up from Draco; their two faces stared at Snape’s in unbelief. Hermione started to shake her head in denial.  
“Oh, yes, Miss Granger,” Snape snarled. “Your precious Mr. Potter has practiced Dark Magic.”   
Hermione gasped this time. She was still shaking her head slowly as her eyes went back to Draco’s damaged body.   
Harry did THIS?   
Draco was still unconscious, pale, and bloody, but, he looked peaceful.   
He’s TOO peaceful, she realized as tears began to cloud her vision and her stomach felt as if it were tightly twisting inside of her. She sobbed as another thought came to mind and more dread suffused through her.  
Did Harry do this because of ME?!  
“Miss Granger! Potions,” Snape growled as he tipped his head toward the vials.   
Snape’s directive snapped Hermione out of her thoughts, and she quickly reached for the vials. Pomfrey, Hermione noticed distractedly, was preparing medical equipment.  
“First Dittany, girl,” Snape snarled, as Hermione began with the wrong potion. Flustered, Hermione nodded and found and opened Dittany, dropping the magic liquid via a dropper onto the lacerations along Draco’s torso. Though she had never done this before, she knew that it should be painful for the recipient, but Draco, in his unconscious state, didn’t move a muscle; for that Hermione was grateful, but she also became more concerned.   
Larger tears began to drop from her eyes while she dropped the clear liquid into Draco’s skin. She was conscious of her waterworks—and that Snape was staring at her—but she didn’t care. All she could think about was how close to death Draco looked and how she had to help save his life. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—let him die.   
After what seemed like forever, Hermione realized that Pomfrey was preparing what Hermione knew to be a Muggle intravenous line. Hermione startled both Snape and Pomfrey when she abruptly informed the Healer (in an uncharacteristically impertinent and very authoritative tone) that, “That I.V. line cannot go into his left arm.”   
Snape’s mouth actually went agape, and he stopped performing his spells for a few seconds, staring at her; Hermione pretended as if she didn’t notice. Pomfrey looked at her with strong irritation, but she moved around to Draco’s right side to insert the I.V. Then Snape stared at Pomfrey.   
The I.V. line infused an intravenous blood-replenishing potion and Muggle I.V. fluids into Draco. The treatment was for low blood pressure due to blood loss and to prevent organ failure and cardiac arrest, Pomfrey explained. Hermione paled, matching the normal color of her paramour, significantly at that explanation; her ability to be strong and hopeful was rapidly dwindling.

~

When Snape declared that he had done all he could do and that he needed to attend to another pressing matter, he swept out of the Wing like the dungeon bat he was—but not before giving Hermione a bewildered look that quickly turned dark.  
When Madam Pomfrey was satisfied that Draco was stable, and after his wounds were magically bandaged, she performed a Scourgify on Draco and his clothing and then a cleansing charm unknown to Hermione on herself and then on Hermione.  
“Time to go, Miss Granger,” she said quickly, pulling the privacy curtains around Draco’s bed, murmuring a spell as she did so. Words of protest were making their way to Hermione’s lips when, to Hermione’s surprise, Pomfrey beckoned the young witch to follow her back to the bed of Cho Chang.   
Cho had been quiet the whole time Draco was being attended to—or so Hermione had thought until the second Pomfrey pulled back the privacy curtain. Then Hermione heard Cho screaming bloody murder.   
Ah, a silencing charm is placed around the area, Hermione realized.  
Cho had Marietta’s hand in a vice-like grip, which must be quite strong, Hermione decided, as Marietta was wincing with tears in her eyes. Cho’s face was red and sweaty; Marietta couldn’t keep the cool, wet washcloths on Cho’s face as Cho was writhing in the bed. Cho would cry, groan, and scream and then repeat the sequence every couple of minutes.   
Wait—what am I doing here? Hermione asked herself after taking in the scene. Madam Pomfrey answered that for her when she handed Hermione a cup of conjured ice chips that looked like tiny pieces of hail. The Healer instructed her to give Cho a mouthful between every contraction, and Cho readily accepted and quickly chewed on them.  
Pomfrey lifted up the thin sheet covering Cho’s legs and stuck a hand underneath, which caused Cho to cry out. Hermione instinctually clamped her own legs together, sure that she had a look of repulsion—or, at the very least, fear—on her face. Madam Pomfrey nodded, to herself, it seemed before conjuring a bar over the bed. The three witches assisted Cho to a squatting position in the bed, and then the Healer instructed Cho to grip the bar and talked to her about pushing.  
Marietta remained by Cho’s left side, rubbing Cho’s lower back and providing words of encouragement while Hermione, on Cho’s right, continued to offer the ice chips. Hermione felt decidedly out of place; she and Cho had never been chummy, and this was not the sort of situation one normally finds themselves in with mere acquaintances.   
Between contractions, Madam Pomfrey gave a task to Hermione, who surrendered the ice chip duty to Marietta.   
“Summon the newborn kit and cot, Hermione.”  
Upon the completion of the task, Pomfrey gave another to Hermione while she continued to coach Cho through pushing.   
“Summon the postpartum kit, Hermione.”  
Then she gave another, “Perform a Warming Charm on the swaddling blankets, Hermione,”and then another, “Prepare the syringes with the Muggle medicines in the postpartum kit, Hermione,” and another until the Healer seemed confident that every item she knew was needed or anticipated she may need was present and ready for use for the birth. Then she commanded, “Now, Hermione, go measure, for a full minute, the respiratory rate and pulse rate of our other patient—and Hermione? No dawdling,” the Healer finished, giving Hermione a knowing look.   
Hermione felt instant heat in her cheeks and nodded in response to the Healer’s instruction.  
Performing the Scourgify Charm on her hands as she walked to Draco’s bed, she hoped that he would look less like death than he had just a short time ago and that he’d even be awake. Earlier, she had wanted so badly to kiss him and tell him how much she wanted him to wake—to survive. She was glad for the opportunity she now had to do that, even if for only a couple of minutes.  
Upon opening the privacy curtain, her little hopes were dashed, however, as she was met with the surprised and disdainful faces of three of Draco’s Housemates. Her breath caught in her throat in surprise. Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and Daphne Greengrass were all there at Draco’s bedside—well, technically, Parkinson was sitting on the bed—practically in Draco’s lap—clutching one of his hands (his left) to her bosom and crying. Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini were unexpectedly absent, she noted.   
“What in the name of Merlin are YOU doing here, Mudblood?” spat Parkinson, looking more disdainful with every second that Hermione stood there.  
Hermione had no idea why Madam Pomfrey was allowing her to be her assistant tonight; to Hermione’s knowledge, no student had ever assisted Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing. She simply said, “Excuse me,” looking Nott in the eyes.   
Nott moved aside, and as Hermione tried to inconspicuously squeeze her large (but invisible) bump past him on Draco’s right side, he spoke.   
“Granger’s not going to hurt Draco, Pansy—but even if she were to try, she’d never get her spell off before I sent a nasty hex her way.” His tone suggested that it was more of a warning to Hermione than an assurance to Parkinson.  
Hermione pushed up her sleeve to see her Muggle watch as Parkinson sneered at her from just a few feet away. In a deceptively sweet voice, Parkinshon said, “We all heard what you tried to do when Weasley was here, Granger—how you tried to worm yourself into his arms while he was sick and vulnerable.” Her voice turned hateful in a millisecond. “And now you’re here, trying to do it, again, aren’t you, Mudblood?”  
Before beginning her task, Hermione met the stares and glares of each Slytherin with barely contained rage and responded. “Madam Pomfrey sent me to count this patient’s respiratory and pulse rates as she is currently attending to another patient.” She was met with an unreadable expression from Greengrass while Nott exuded amusement; Parkinson continued to glare and rant while Hermione counted. Hermione, knowing she could only leave the presence of the vicious girl when her task was complete, never missed a beat or breath. Her determination and focus, though, could not keep her from hearing the vile words being spoken.  
“You don’t have the RIGHT to be with a Pureblood, even if a Pureblood were to want you—which none do, not even Weasley.”  
Hermione counted on. She knew Parkinson was just baiting her. She knew how Parkinson loved a fight.   
“Weasley may have befriended you….maybe even dallied with you, but greater wizards—like Draco—would never have you. You’re not good enough to buff his wand, if you get my meaning, Granger,” Parkinson sneered, a triumphant expression plastered on her pug-nosed face.   
It was a pretty face, the nose notwithstanding, Hermione had to admit. She always had been able to see why Draco was attracted to her—physically, anyway.  
Hermione maintained her silence, but she was fuming on the inside. She also found it odd that neither Nott nor Greengrass said a word—to her or to one another. They were probably just enjoying the ‘show’.   
Well, Hermione internally smirked, I’m certainly not going to perform for them!   
Parkinson must have sensed this, because she continued her hateful diatribe in a much angrier tone than that with which she had started. “You just do what you’re told by the Madam and then stay away from him, understand, Mudblood? Draco will be furious enough when he finds out you were here, touching him with your filthy skin, without you trying to whore your way—”   
Hermione had effectively kept herself from shedding tears that had been on the verge of humiliating her, but she could no longer keep control of her tongue. The second Hermione finished counting Draco’s heartbeats and breaths, she spoke. “I assure you that I have no designs on ANY ‘pureblood’—least of all Draco Malfoy,” she said in her most disdainful tone, hoping that it disguised the tremor that she’d heard in her voice. The others looked convinced, but Pansy snorted in disbelief.  
Hermione then practically ran from Draco’s bedside and the vipers that surrounded him, finally allowing her tears to fall, grateful for the Silencing Charm on the curtains.  
Seconds later, she was back to Cho’s area. When she pulled back the curtain to report Draco’s vital signs, Pomfrey cut her off.  
“Close the curtain,” Pomfrey said curtly. “Scourgify yourself!”   
Hermione was taken knocked-for-six at first, but it only took a second to figure out just why the Healer was so brusque with her; Cho’s baby was about to make its debut. Hermione quickly did as she’d been bid. Then, to Hermione’s astonishment, Pomfrey instructed Hermione to assist her at the end of the bed. Hermione sent Cho a look that asked for her approval, but she received none (Cho was focused on more important matters and busy grunting and screaming from the pain). So, Hermione sat facing Cho and next to Pomfrey on a stool the Healer had conjured as Pomfrey quietly asked for the vital signs Hermione had collected. Then Pomfrey nodded and said curtly, “That’s good. Now, pay attention here, Miss Granger.”  
Hermione was utterly baffled. She had no words (which was saying something!). She hadn’t read much about childbirth yet (and she wouldn’t need to now, she thought).   
“Almost there, Cho. You’re doing a wonderful job, dear girl,” Pomfrey said in her most motherly tone, with which Hermione was familiar.  
Pomfrey quietly explained to Hermione the reasons for every thing she did during the delivery of Cho’s baby in between louder praises and instructions for Cho. It didn’t take long. Hermione watched in wonder (and a certain amount of discomfort at seeing a fellow student—and the ex-girlfriend of her best friend—in such a private way). Hermione handled the experience with almost as much composure and professionalism as the trained Healer did. Even the sight of the fluids and events of a birth didn’t affect her (until later, when she thought about all of THAT happening to her, that is).   
When it was all over (Cho’s screaming having ceased and been replaced by the tiny cries of her baby), Hermione assisted (at the Healer’s request) with the postpartum care of Cho and with the assessment and care of her newborn. When Pomfrey deemed mother and baby stable, she and Hermione left them with Marietta. The Madam sent Hermione to her office to ready some tea (“Strong tea for me, Miss Granger”) and call a house elf for some food while she checked on Draco. Upon her return, she disclosed to Hermione that she had brought Cho to the Wing on a stretcher not much earlier before Draco had been brought in by Snape. She did so because there was no time to arrange for the delivery to occur at St. Mungo’s, as Floo travel while pregnant was contraindicated and as Apparation was also ill advised during labor.   
Hermione was awed. “So birthing is a short process, then?” she asked tentatively (and hopefully).   
Poor dear, thought Madam Pomfrey. “No, not usually,” she said with as much compassion as her tired and frayed nerves could muster. Hermione then learned that Cho had been in labor for hours before Marietta had become worried enough to seek the Healer’s help. Pomfrey also relayed that Cho had only told Marietta that she was pregnant, and that Cho was declining to reveal to Pomfrey who the father is.   
Hmmm. This baby must have been conceived around early September—the start of the new school year, Hermione calculated before wondering if the baby’s father could be Michael Corner, whom Cho had been dating at the end of last year. The possibility that Cho had been raped, too, had not escaped Hermione, and so, with a feeling of peculiarity, Hermione realized that she felt a sudden kinship with Cho because of her situation (i.e., her largely-secret, teenage pregnancy wherein no father seemed to be participating).   
Maybe Cho could help me in some way in the next few months. Heaven knows how great it would be for me to have a girl to whom I could relate right now!  
She’d never really had that—even before being a pregnant teen.   
If she has indeed been raped, maybe she knows who did it, Hermione continued to muse, and maybe, it’s the same guy who raped me!  
Then she realized that if she did discover her rapist’s identity, she’d have to keep it a secret from Draco, which was something she wasn’t looking forward to having to do. She loathed having to lie to him, but she knew that if Draco knew her rapist’s identity, he would likely get himself into another huge disaster, and he’d had enough of those already. 

~

After their quick tea and snack break (Hermione’s stomach was still growling), Hermione, at the Healer’s insistence, watched Pomfrey teach Cho how to nurse her child. It wasn’t as instinctual as Hermione had first thought, but Cho and her baby seemed to catch on quickly. During the lesson, Pomfrey gave Hermione as much attention as she gave the actual lactating mother, without giving away the secret of Hermione’s pregnancy. Hermione knew that the Healer was sneakily trying to teach her, too, and though she understood that Pomfrey was only trying to be helpful, she felt more than a scant amount of annoyance with her. As Hermione had planned from the start to adopt the twins out (which the Madam already knew), she was not planning to ever nurse them. Providing bottles right from the start was the most logical option considering that the twins were going to be separated from her shortly after their birth anyway.   
The more Hermione thought about it, the more she realized that Pomfrey was trying to persuade her to not put the twins up for adoption; she frowned, but she filed that away for contemplation at another time.  
The sight in front of her was a good distraction from her annoyance. Cho’s face, though it was so very tired looking, was full of awe and love as she gazed at the infant in her arms. Hermione couldn’t help but wonder at the sight.   
How is it that Cho could have so much love for her child already? Will I have that feeling with the twins? And, if Cho had indeed been raped, how is it that she so thrilled with the product of it?   
Her last thought made Cho’s obvious attachment to her newborn all the more spectacular and bewildering to Hermione.  
After the lesson in breastfeeding, Madam Pomfrey had thanked Hermione for her help with Cho and told her to call a house elf for a meal for Cho and a proper dinner for herself. “I won’t have you starving because you were here caring for another mother and child,” she’d said. Pomfrey also told her that the Slytherins were planning to stay until shortly before curfew (10pm), and as Hermione wanted to avoid them like the plague, she did as Pomfrey told her.   
Bringing Cho her dinner after her son had eaten, Hermione complimented Cho on the brilliant job she had done and told her how courageous she had been. Hermione secretly hoped that she would be as brave when her time came to birth the twins. The shy and pretty girl gave Hermione a sweet smile and thanked her, handing the baby to Marietta.  
Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if Cho was going to put her son up for adoption or if the soon-to-be-graduate was planning to keep him; neither could she help asking Cho what she planned to name her son. Without hesitation (while Marietta gave Cho a wide-eyed look), Cho replied in her adorable Scottish accent, “Cedric.”   
Cedric. As in Cedric Diggory, who had been Cho’s boyfriend—and who had been dead for two years.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK?! THANKS FOR CONTINUING ON WITH THIS STORY! IM SO SO SORRY FOR THE HUGE DELAY IN POSTING AN UPDATE ON THIS STORY! IN THE PAST 4 MONTHS, I'VE READIED MY HOME FOR SALE, SOLD IT, BOUGHT A NEW HOME, MOVED IN, AND BEEN SICK AND HAD THREEE SICK KIDS THREE TIMES SINCE THE NEW YEAR! OH, YEAH, AND THE HOLIDAYS AND TWO KIDS' BIRTHDAYS.   
> WELL, LOTS MORE TO COME WITH THIS STORY, I PROMISE!   
> ~PABG


	15. chapter 15

Hermione had eaten dinner and then gone to Gryffindor tower; she still had two hours until curfew—until the Slytherins left Draco’s bedside.  
After visiting the Common Room and her friends, she was fuming after fighting with Harry and Ginny (Ginny!?). The fight with Harry was first about his injudicious use of the Advanced Potion-Making book (and spells therein) that once belonged to the mysterious and questionable ‘Half-Blood Prince’. For as much as she was loyal to Harry and loved him like a brother, she had really laid into him. And secondly, she and Harry had fought about Draco and, well, herself.  
When Hermione arrived in the Common Room, Harry was obviously distraught about what he had done to Draco, but Hermione hadn’t cared. She had screamed at Harry when he’d starting putting all of the blame for the incident on Draco. She’d berated him, which began the fight with Ginny, who causing insulted Hermione about her Quidditch knowledge (of all things!).  
After the uncharacteristic catfight between Harry’s crush and his best girl friend, Harry had pulled Hermione away from Ron and Ginny; they kept shooting furtive glances over at Harry and Hermione, and they both, Hermione noted with a bit of confusion, wore looks of badly-concealed jealousy.  
Once she and Harry had privacy with the help of a Muffliato Charm (another spell from the ‘blasted’ potions book, Harry reminded her sarcastically, which only caused Hermione to be angrier), Harry had told her that he had not told her—or anyone else—everything that had occurred in the lavatory that evening.  
“Malfoy told Moaning Myrtle some other things, Hermione,” he whispered cryptically. Hermione gave him an impatient look as if to say, ‘Get on with it.’  
“He was talking to her about you,” Harry told her, his lips barely moving so as not to be easily read by the two redheads eyeing him and Hermione.  
Surprise and dread—mostly dread—at what Draco had said—what Harry had HEARD—filled her, so much so that she was speechless. Harry expounded (though hesitantly, Hermione sensed).  
“He said, ‘She was raped because of me,’ and, ‘If he finds out, he’ll kill her’.”  
Hermione’s brain engaged quickly. “Why do you think he was referring to me, Harry? I mean, what he said was not very—”  
“He said your name, Hermione,” Harry cut her off.  
Hermione paled and her eyes lost focus. Harry breathed in deeply and continued.  
“He said, ‘It’s all my fault! Hermione—MY MIONE—was raped because of me! She won’t stay with me, now.’ Then he cried some more—the tosser—and said, ‘If he finds out, he’ll kill her and her children! He’ll kill me—and my whole family!’”  
Suddenly weak in the knees, Hermione had to sit down.  
Although Harry was not the most observant young wizard, he did know Hermione well, and he read the emotions flitting over her face like a book.  
“Hermione,” Harry’s tone was tight and his voice was low as he sat next to Hermione on a large chair and whispered into her ear. “Why would Malfoy say those things about you?”  
Hermione couldn’t answer him. She was nowhere near prepared to have this conversation with him. Moments earlier she’d bitten his scarred head off….she’d been so angry with him because she was so frightened for Draco….and now she was frightened for herself—not because she learned that her life and her babies’ lives were more at risk than she’d ever really believed (although she was concerned about that).  
Her fear and all of her sudden nervous energy stemmed from the fact that her secret was about to be revealed—no, it wasn’t ABOUT to be—it ALREADY had been! Harry was no fool; he knew something was going on, and she knew that there was no way she’d escape telling him anything less than the truth.  
She had zero confidence that Harry would take her relationship with Draco well, and very little confidence that she wouldn’t lose his friendship over the truth.  
“Harry….please just remain calm, alright?” The small sideways glanced she gave him showed her that Harry was livid, but he nodded tersely after a moment.  
“You know that I have been meeting with Draco—”  
“DRACO? You call him by his first name now?” he hissed with wide eyes.  
“Oh, Harry!” she hissed impatiently. “Have some perspective here!”  
Quickly, Harry agreed that her point was valid with a nod of his messy, dark-haired head, and he gestured for her to continue.  
“We have been in the Room of Requirement together….at times when I wasn’t tutoring him—many times,” she said tentatively and without looking him in the eyes. When he remained silent, Hermione continued. “He and I have become….close,” she whispered. She glanced at Harry now; his green eyes were wide and his mouth was open.  
“What does THAT mean, Hermione?” he finally exclaimed.  
Hermione figured that she did not need to explain what ‘THAT’ meant; instead, she employed the Slytherin modus operandi of deflection.  
“He’s different with me, I swear! He’s never hurt me or called me ‘Mudblood’ since we have become close—this whole year—even before this year, actually! He’s very supportive of my pregnancy, and—”  
Harry gasped. “You told him?! When? Why? You’re supposed to keep it a secret, Hermione!”  
“I know that, Harry!” Hermione screeched, thankful for the Muffliato Charm. “I didn’t tell him! The Concealment Charm doesn’t work if the body part is touched, and one night….” Hermione stopped, wishing she could start over as she saw the horrified look Harry was giving her. Harry made a sound of disgust and screwed up his face.  
She took a fortifying breath. “Harry James Potter, it’s NOT what you are thinking! I am NOT sleeping with him! He’s a complete gentleman, Harry, I assure you. Do you think I’d tolerate anything less?”  
Harry just looked at her, knowing that she most certainly would not.  
Hermione continued. “He treats me well, even after he found out about my pregnancy—especially since finding out, actually.”  
“Yeah, and now we know why, don’t we?” Harry spat. “We know he’s had access to Polyjuice Potion that Crabbe and Goyle have been using to disguise themselves for whatever he’s doing in the Room of Requirement—when you’re not there with him, anyway.”  
Harry, paled and abruptly stopped his ranting. “Crabbe or Goyle….what if it were one of them who raped you?”  
Hermione’s stomach clenched in revulsion at the thought.  
“Hermione, what if Malfoy gave his hairs to them to rape you?”  
“He wouldn’t do that! He abhors rape! He would NEVER be part of such a thing!”  
“You’re just blinded by your feelings for him!”  
“And so are YOU!” Hermione shot back shrilly.  
Harry looked a bit stunned at her vehemence but continued on after a short, uncomfortable silence. “What if he didn’t know that they were going to rape someone?”  
Hermione had to pause and contemplate Harry’s suggestion, as much as it irked her.  
“Hermione, this is MALFOY we’re talking about.”  
Hermione stood immediately, her ire having combusted inside of her, fueling her sudden movement. “We are done talking about this, Harry!” she growled and promptly fled the Common Room without a backward glance.

After fighting, Hermione, angry and resentful, stomped directly to the Room. It was like second nature—automatic—but when she got there, she realized that any comfort she would normally have found there was in the Hospital Wing at the moment. She sighed and went in anyway, determined to get some peace and quiet (and get some homework done) until she could sneak downstairs to the Hospital Wing to see Draco.  
She didn’t get any homework done, however, and although she found quiet in the Room, she found no peace. Her brain was consumed by thoughts of the past evening’s events as she sat in the Room of Hidden Things, alone and lonely, waiting for 10pm to arrive.  
She thought about what Harry had done, and about what he had revealed to her and insinuated about Draco. She’d never been angrier with Harry than she was now.  
Pansy Parkinson’s biting words also flowed through her thoughts. Hermione mentally called her names that she usually wouldn’t call anyone. Part of her regretted not afflicting Pansy with a nasty hex.  
Parkinson had accused Hermione of a few things, only one of which was true; Hermione did want Draco. It wasn’t, as Parkinson had insinuated, because of his blood status (truth be told, it was in spite of it), but she DID want him. She’d admitted to herself before that she didn’t like to be without him and that she had loving feelings for him, but, in Hermione’s mind, that hadn’t equated wanting to be with him. Draco’s near death had revealed that which she hadn’t fully understood.  
I want him, she thought, blinking several times as the realization hit her and sunk in. I want us to be together.  
Huh.  
One good thing came out of Harry’s attempt at murder, then, she thought sardonically.  
Could this really be considered a good thing, though? she pondered. Honestly? Realistically? Is it actually a good thing that I’ve realized that I want something when I can’t have it?  
Because how could she have Draco, really? She could love him, but be with him? Could she really hold his hand in the corridors (without a Disillusionment Charm); sit across from him at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop; be his date at the Yule Ball next year; be introduced to his parents as his girlfriend?  
Be introduced to his parents at all?!  
That was not going to happen.  
She groaned out loud; she hated that Pansy Parkinson was right. 

~

At nearly ten o’clock, with renewed strength and determination (and after a tonne of shed tears), Hermione left the Room of Hidden Things under a Disillusionment Charm and headed to the Hospital Wing.  
Harry is probably watching me on the Map, she thought with a tied sigh. However, she didn’t care; he already knew about her and Draco, and she knew that he wouldn’t tell a soul about them.  
The Wing was quiet when Hermione arrived. The opening and closing of the Wing doors alerted Madam Pomfrey, and she peeked out from behind Draco’s privacy curtains and waved Hermione over.  
“Mr. Malfoy’s friends are gone now, Hermione. I’ll be locking the doors momentarily,” Pomfrey said quietly, tilting her head toward the Wing’s entrance doors. When she noticed the alarm on Hermione’s face, she quickly added, “You are welcome to stay, dear. He’s….sleeping….still.”  
Hermione tilted her head in query; Madam Pomfrey’s tone was much too cryptic and her choice of words was much too ambiguous for Hermione’s liking.  
The Madam gave a curt nod, understanding Hermione’s need for transparency. “He hasn’t woken at all, Hermione, and….I cannot tell if he will.”  
Hermione’s amber eyes sprung an instant leak. “You mean….he may….never wake?” she asked apprehensively. Pomfrey began to answer, but Hermione cut her off with a hysterical cry. “What about Rennervate? Or Piertotum Locomotor? Or—”  
But Pomfrey stopped her, holding up one hand. “NO, Miss Granger,” she said in a harshly uttered whisper. “Unfortunately not, I’m afraid.”  
Hermione’s eyes were wide as they darted from the Healer to the unconscious blond boy separated from her by the curtain. Pomfrey saw the intense worry in her eyes, and spoke again, her tone softer and more maternal.  
“Please, Hermione, calm yourself. I cannot give you a sedative if you get too anxious because of your pregnancy. You need to stay calm for the sake of the babies….and Mr. Malfoy.”  
Hermione nodded and forced her feelings to a simmer instead of a boil inside of her, taking many meditative breaths to do so. Pomfrey spoke again when Hermione was calm. “Should he wake, alert me immediately. And, Hermione, should that happen, I want him resting.”  
Hermione blushed and nodded briskly.  
“It may be that he can hear us. He needs positivity. Can you handle this, Hermione?” Pomfrey asked seriously.  
“I can, Madam,” she whispered with a sniff. “I will.”  
Madam Pomfrey then pulled back the privacy curtain and ushered her into Draco’s area.  
“I laid out pajamas for you on the bedside table and extended the bed so that you may share with Mr. Malfoy. I have placed a charm on him to keep him laying on his back, and there must be a pillow between you two; I can’t have you laying on him, putting pressure on his wounds.”  
Hermione (still blushing) nodded in understanding.  
“I will be in during the night to check on him and administer more fluids. Sleep well, Hermione,” Madam Pomfrey said as she left.  
The moonlight streaming in through the window above the bed was her only source of light, and although it made for a beautiful scene, it was very inadequate. Casting the Lumos Charm, she inspected Draco’s face, and she was happy to see that although it was still pale, his color was much improved from when she’d last seen it.  
Hermione stroked the now-clean and velvety-soft pale blonde hair off of his forehead and ran her fingers through it. Draco did not stir. Taking his left wrist in hers, she felt for his pulse; it was stronger than it had been when she felt it hours ago, and she let out a whimper of relief.  
She donned the hospital-issue pajamas, a two-piece set that was made of thick flannel to combat the coldness of the Wing. She was exhausted when she finally crawled into the bed, which was now a comfortable size for two, and she was pleasantly surprised by the softness of the pajamas and the bed linens (they were hospital textiles after all) and happy to see that Draco was also clad in soft pajamas (though she figured he’d probably wrinkle up his nose at them not being silk). The thought made her smile, albeit sadly; her wizard could be quite a snob, but he was her snob (for now), and she loved his little quirks.  
She laid down on his left, facing him and wrapping her left arm over the large body pillow between them to grasp his left bicep, which she stroked silently. Her body was fatigued, but her mind was racing with thoughts moving a kilometer a minute: what Harry had done to Draco, what Harry had told her, what Parkinson had nastily spewed at her….  
“Harry is really very, truly sorry for what he did, Draco,” she said earnestly. She felt compelled to speak to him in case he could hear her, as the Madam had suggested. Obviously, Draco could make no response, so Hermione imagined what he would say if he could respond. She imagined that his current peaceful expression would change into his usual, notorious ‘Malfoy sneer,’ whatever nasty thing he’d say coming out of his curled pink lips with blatant disdain.  
He really does hate Harry, and now that’s not likely to ever change, she thought.  
Draco’s hypothetical response prodded her to speak again. “Before you get too worked up, I chastised him for it—fiercely, in fact—but really, Draco, you shouldn’t have provoked him by casting the Cruciatus.” She scolded only half-heartedly; as astonished as she was that Draco had used the Unforgiveable, she could not be angry with him as he lay unconscious in a hospital bed. She imagined his facial features twisting up to convey his displeasure at her censure, but she knew that, were he awake, in his eyes she would see him acknowledge that she was right.  
Next topic, she thought, her right hand continuing to play with Draco’s hair as her left slid from his bicep to his hand. She brought their joined hands up to rest on his heart, only just remembering in time that she was not to put pressure on his healing chest. She rested their joined hands on his shoulder instead.  
“Harry told me what you said—you know….about you being responsible for my rape and the twins and me being in danger. Well, as to the first part of that, that is absolutely false; you didn’t rape me, Draco, and you are not responsible for it. As for the second….I already knew that. The twins have been kept secret for a reason, and as long as they remain secret, then we are fine. You need not beat yourself up about it anymore.”  
Hermione bit her lip, trying to imagine how Draco would respond. He’d argue, certainly, but nothing specific came to her. With a small frown, she moved on.  
“So….you may have heard, but….I told Parkinson that I don’t want you.” This time, she knew with certainty how he would respond: his expression would be the one he wore when he was angry but trying to hide it. His eyebrows wouldn’t budge and his eyes wouldn’t narrow, but his jaw would clench and he would grit his teeth.  
Did you mean that? he would ask.  
“No,” Hermione said. “I didn’t mean it.”  
She then imagined that his jaw unclenched and that he sighed almost unperceptively, his face relaxed by the tiniest amount and his grey eyes, serious steady, fixed on her own.  
Then you lied, he would state—imperiously.  
“I did,” she whispered. “I want us together, but….the thing is, Draco, that we can’t be….not truly….not like I want. You’re….well, you’re you, and I’m a Muggleborn, and outside of the Room of Requirement, we—together—can’t exist.”  
She sighed and was thoughtful for a few moments. Again, she couldn’t imagine his response. Would he fight for her, or would he acquiesce and give up on her? She remembered (how could she EVER forget) that he told her once that he can’t lose her, that he needs her; but when push comes to shove—which would happen sooner rather than later, she reasoned, judging by the current political climate in the Wizarding world—what will he do? When he’s forced to show his true colors, what will those colors be? Will he prove to truly be a Death Eater at heart, or will he fight for her and her kind? Will he stand against his family for her, a Muggleborn?  
Still unconscious, Draco slept on, and Hermione cuddled into him (or into the pillow separating them, rather), letting her tears fall freely on the pillow as she gazed at the wizard she thought she loved who may not ever awake….who may not ever know how she feels about him….whom she may eventually lose….who may break her heart into a million pieces.

~

It wasn’t even fully light out when Hermione woke to someone shaking her.  
“Hermione? Hermione? Miss Granger? You’ve got to get up. Now!”  
Blinking furiously, she realized that Pomfrey was the one shaking and talking to her. “What’s wrong?” she asked, immediately worried about Draco and turning to him.  
“Mr. Malfoy has a guest coming to see him—now. Go to my office!”  
Hermione moved to grab her clothes but the Healer spelled them away (presumably to her office, Hermione hoped) and handed the young witch her wand. “Go,” she said after peeking out of the curtain.  
“Who is it?” Hermione asked as she passed Pomfrey.  
“His mother,” Pomfrey said.  
Hermione hightailed it to the office. As reluctant as she was to leave Draco, Hermione was more than eager to avoid meeting his mother again; the cold sneer Mrs. Malfoy had bestowed upon her last August at Madam Malkin’s was not something she wanted repeated, no matter how much she had learned about her tender side; more importantly, she couldn’t give away her relationship with Draco to his mother.  
No sooner had she made it into the office than she heard the huge, heavy Wing doors opening and Pomfrey greeting Mrs. Malfoy.  
After dressing and waiting ten minutes for Mrs. Malfoy to leave (which she did not), Hermione decided that instead of being bored and unproductive in Pomfrey’s office, she should visit Cho and her son—and perhaps try to glean some information to satisfy her curiosity.  
“Morning!” Hermione whispered, sticking her face into the small gap in the curtain but keeping her eyes averted from the new mother.  
Cho, who was awake and changing her son, looked up in surprise but repeated the greeting and then acquiesced to Hermione’s request to come in.  
Hermione entered, remembering to pull the privacy curtain fully closed before she sat on the chair at Cho’s bedside.  
“You’re here awfully early, Hermione,” Cho observed.  
“Um, yes,” Hermione replied before the lie rolled off of her tongue. “Part of assisting Madam Pomfrey, you see?”  
Cho made a noncommittal sound in response to Hermione’s explanation but said nothing, and Baby Cedric, changed and re-swaddled and seemingly content, quickly became the topic of discussion between the two young witches. When that topic exhausted itself, a slightly uncomfortable Hermione asked, “So, how is motherhood thus far?”  
“Oh, it’s a trifle more tiring than I expected,” the pretty Head Girl replied in her quiet Scottish accent, laughing a little. “But, I love him, and so it’s all worth it,” she added with sincere sweetness and a sigh as she lovingly gazed at her son, who lay on the bed between his mother’s outstretched legs.  
A silence followed before Hermione worked up enough courage to inquire more of the girl. “What will you do now, Cho? I mean….will you finish at Hogwarts? What are your plans following graduation?” she asked sympathetically (after all, she could relate!).  
Cho smiled. “Well, I’ll be taking Final Exams this week—Professor Dumbledore gave me permission….,” Cho said. “After I finish them, I’ll be leaving Hogwarts. I’ve been offered a position where I can be of use and where I can have Ced with me,” she said.  
A bit oblique, her answer, thought Hermione, but she, of course, did not push the subject. She was just happy to hear that Cho’s life seemed to be working out to Cho’s satisfaction.  
“Hermione,” Cho began again, “please don’t tell anyone about Ced? I’m not ready for the world to know quite yet.”  
Hermione nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she seriously said before impulsively adding, “Cho, I….well, I—I think it’s great that you’re keeping your son.”  
Cho’s eyebrows raised faintly, the rest of her face impassive as she nodded in return. Unexpectedly, Cho offered the bundled Cedric to Hermione, who took him after a tiny awkward pause. As she got used to the feel of holding the hours-old child, Hermione peered at his chubby baby face and tiny baby hands. She unconsciously sniffed in his baby scent and she smiled at him. The Ravenclaw gave her a pensive look that Hermione missed, but had she not, Hermione would have squirmed just a tad.  
Hermione, still looking at Cedric, continued, “I was wondering if….well….Were you….” She paused as she struggled to find the words (which surprised Cho as Hermione Granger almost never had that particular impediment). “Well, to be blunt: I was raped around Christmastime, and I was wondering if you were also? And, if so, perhaps you know who did it, and perhaps it was the same boy who raped me, and maybe the two of us could….get him sent to prison.”  
Hermione looked up at Cho to see a look of shock on her face that quickly turned to what Hermione thought was apprehension. Cho then avoided eye contact with Hermione like Hermione was a Basilisk ready to petrify her and there were no mandrakes with which to make the antidote.  
“Oh, Hermione,” Cho breathed finally, still not meeting Hermione’s eyes. “I am sorry that happened to you….”  
After a few minutes of silence, Hermione timidly said, “If you were, and you don’t want to speak of it, I completely understand, Cho, but….know that I’m here to listen, if you should ever want to talk.”  
Cho made no response as she stared up at the Wing’s cathedral ceiling. Hermione, now unquestionably discomfited, let her gaze fall back to Baby Cedric. He really was a beautiful child, Hermione deemed. He looked much like Cho; his hair was jet black and his eyes were a lovely almond shape. The sleeping babe started to open his eyes, and Hermione, being so close to him noticed for the first time that his eyes were a striking light blue—so light that they were almost grey; they reminded her of Draco’s eyes.  
Thinking wistfully (and in spite of herself), Hermione starting babbling and cooing to the child, smiling and stroking his uncovered, wrinkled, tiny hand. He was so small and warm and just plain precious that Hermione felt a pang of want for her own babies in that moment—which most definitely surprised her.  
Baby Cedric let out a tiny cry, bringing Cho’s attention back down from the ceiling. “Please, hand him to me, would you, Hermione?” she asked as she sat up straighter. “I think he’s hungry.”  
Hermione carefully stood and passed the squirming bundle to Cho and then placed pillows under her arms for support. Cho expertly held her son to her breast to nurse him.  
“Well, I’d better give you some privacy,” Hermione said in a rush, walking away.  
“Hermione? What did the boy who raped you look like?” Cho asked.  
Hermione froze where she stood, her hand ceasing its motion to pull back the privacy curtain.  
“Did you….fight him off, or were you….alright with it?” Cho asked carefully.  
Hermione was certainly surprised as she absorbed not only the words Cho used but also the implied meaning behind them.  
Cho must have been under the love potion, too! Then, perhaps, Polyjuice had also been used!  
Hermione turned to face Cho. “You were raped then? With Amortentia? And Polyjuice?” she asked (a bit too excitedly, truth be told).  
Cho gave her a sad look and shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “But I did use a love potion that I got from—”  
“Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?” Hermione asked with disgust.  
Cho nodded.  
“I was manipulated—drugged—by my attacker with that, too,” Hermione revealed. “I am going to hex Fred and George Weasley within a centimeter of their lives next time I see them!”  
Cho gave an understanding nod before saying, “It is very powerful. I can see that, in the wrong hands, it could be harmful. I, however, took it freely….to help me create Cedric.”  
Hermione’s eyes, of their own volition, went wide. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard: Cho had purposely gotten pregnant.  
Why, she wondered, would a seventh-year—the Head Girl!—A Ravenclaw!—purposely get pregnant while in school?  
Unfortunately, Cho didn’t expound, and so, as she burped her son, the witches sat in silence. Hermione was disappointed; after months of not dwelling on her rape (and being quite successful in that venture due to her mind and time being preoccupied with and by Draco), her interest in doling out some justice had been renewed; but now, she was at a dead end, so to speak.  
Hermione gave half-hearted attention (for the sake of learning alone) to the spell and wandwork Cho used to change Cedric’s nappy. With that done, Cho re-swaddled Cedric and handed him to Hermione, saying she desperately needed the loo.  
Hermione needed to stretch her legs, so she stood with him and cradled him in her arms. Baby Cedric then make some sort of noise that Hermione interpreted as baby-speak for ‘I’m not happy’, so she gently swayed in an attempt to soothe him. Before long, she was singing a lullaby, and shortly thereafter, the tot was calm, though his eyes remained open, looking at her. Hermione gazed adoringly at his sweet face, envying his innocence, as a smile appeared on her own face. Caught up in the cuteness of Baby Cedric, her thoughts turned to her own babies. That was why she was startled when she heard a voice speak.  
“Cho? May I come in?”  
Cho’s visitor had opened the curtain just enough to reveal the side of his face—and his thick, golden curls….curls that Hermione recognized. She quickly became nervous; she was hesitant to say the wrong the thing. She could understand that the Head Boy would know that Cho, the Head Girl, was in the Hospital Wing, but did he know that Cho was here because of a baby?  
“Um, sorry—Cho’s not here—come back later,” she rapidly uttered.  
At that moment, Cedric decided to greet the visitor with an adorable (though surprisingly loud) cry, which proved to be welcome enough for the Head Boy to peer into the room.  
For a pushy prat, he IS handsome, Hermione thought, sighing in exasperation.  
“McLaggen,” she said, not wanting to use his first name and let him think that they were on better terms than they were as just Housemates. Cormac McLaggen entered the room now holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand.  
“What brings you here?” Hermione asked.  
“I could ask you the same thing, Granger—but that would be quite redundant, don’t you think?” he replied in his usual overconfident and disingenuous way as he pointed between Hermione’s face and the baby in her arms. She rolled her eyes and scowled before turning her back on McLaggen and seeking the innocent face of the babe again.  
Where is your mother, Cedric? she thought.  
McLaggen moved further into the space. He now stood behind Hermione, peered over her shoulder and inspecting Cedric closely. “Considering the looks of his parents, he’ll be a good-looking lad, eventually, despite looking a bit….splotchy, now.”  
Hermione made a sound of disgust.  
“And his eyes are grey….I figured they’d be brown like his mother’s.”  
Hermione itched to inform the hulky ignoramus that all babies have bluish eyes at birth; more than that, though, she wanted to charge him with minding the baby so she could leave his presence. She instead stated as she stared at the baby, “He’s perfect as he is.”  
McLaggen chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll prove to be an excellent mother, Granger,” he told her sanctimoniously, with a smirk and then a wink when she looked up at him over her shoulder in annoyance.  
“He’s not mine!” she hissed.  
Honestly! Where is Cho!?  
Cormac was quiet then, to Hermione’s pleasure, even though she could feel his eyes on her.  
After a few moments, he said, “I actually do know that.” Another quiet pause ensued before he spoke again. “Even so, you’ll be a good mother, Granger,” he added in a tone that Hermione hadn’t heard him use before.  
He actually sounded sincere, she mused. He’d have a girl on each arm if he spoke in that tone coupled with his irresistible Scottish brogue that already drives girls wild.  
The effect that his tone—and his words!—had just had on her was a bit disconcerting, so she only responded with a sideways glance his way and a mumbled, “Thanks,” giving Baby Cedric a sweet smile.  
Before either of them could say anything, a new voice, dripping with distain and definitely not belonging to Cho Chang, spoke.  
“Babies being birthed here at Hogwarts. Then the rumors are true: Dumbledore really has lost his mind.”  
Hermione stiffened immediately. She felt and saw from her periphery that Cormac had turned around, and so she slowly turned to face the newest intruder into Cho’s hospital ‘room’.  
Hermione could only stare as she took in the sight of the woman standing at the opening of the curtain. Her first thought was to hide, which was quickly followed by, What did I do to deserve being pestered by Cormac McLaggen and HER—and both at the same time?!  
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?” the woman pressed.  
Hermione was too intimidated by the woman—her clothes; her hair; her beautiful, piercing eyes; her expression (one meticulously groomed and high-arched brow raised); her posture; and her elocution (and, paradoxically, her ability to convey so much without speaking).  
Finally, Hermione shook her head vigorously. “No,” she croaked before clearing her throat—it was suddenly very dry—because she did, actually, have something to say! She started to explain the situation but was extremely disconcerted by the woman’s gaze now, which was pointedly fixed at Hermione’s abdomen.  
Hermione suddenly realized that her Concealing Charm, which had worn off during the night, had not been cast this morning; in her haste and because she was out of her normal routine, she’d forgotten it! The hospital pajamas were not concealing in any way, and she had a feeling that although she was halfway through her pregnancy, her belly, at the moment, probably looked like she had freshly given birth to a full-term infant! And, if all of that wasn’t incriminating enough, she had been caught holding a baby, smiling at it, wearing hospital-issue garb, and being visited by a male student bearing flowers and who was clearly old enough to be the baby’s father!  
McLaggen must have noticed, too, and that’s why he told me I’ll be a good mother! Bloody hell!  
Cedric, where IS your mother!?


	16. chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ready to find out what (or, rather, WHO) has gotten Hermione so flustered?

(Previously)  
Finally, Hermione shook her head vigorously. “No,” she croaked before clearing her throat—it was suddenly very dry—because she did, actually, have something to say! She started to explain the situation but was extremely disconcerted by the woman’s gaze now, which was pointedly fixed at Hermione’s abdomen.  
Hermione suddenly realized that her Concealing Charm, which had worn off during the night, had not been cast this morning; in her haste and because she was out of her normal routine, she’d forgotten it! The hospital pajamas were not concealing in any way, and she had a feeling that although she was halfway through her pregnancy, her belly, at the moment, probably looked like she had freshly given birth to a full-term infant! And, if all of that wasn’t incriminating enough, she had been caught holding a baby, smiling at it, wearing hospital-issue garb, and being visited by a male student bearing flowers and who was clearly old enough to be the baby’s father!  
‘McLaggen must have noticed, too, and that’s why he told me I’ll be a good mother! Bloody hell!  
Cedric, where IS your mother!?’

Just as Hermione was about to explain about Cho and her son, the woman asked, “What is your name, young lady?”  
Before Hermione could reply, Madam Pomfrey had entered the space and was speaking to the witch; the witch, however, cut her off.  
“Madam,” she said rudely to Pomfrey, “this young lady and young man and I are conversing. Do show us the courtesy of privacy.”  
Hermione saw Madam Pomfrey’s jaw set before she gave Hermione an apologetic look and left. Hermione found that the intruding woman had turned back to her; her unfriendly, light blue eyes were fixed on Hermione as she said, “I am Narcissa Black Malfoy. I am Draco’s mother. And you are?”  
Hermione had no choice but to answer. Summoning her courage, (while picturing the mother from Draco’s fond memories instead of the witch married to and rivaling the formidable Lucius Malfoy currently standing before her), she stood up straighter answered clearly and respectfully, looking the witch straight in the eye. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy,” she said with a small nod. “I hope your son is better this morning. I am Hermione Granger.”  
Mrs. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, though her brows and forehead remained unmoved as she turned her attention upon McLaggen….and his flowers.  
“You have a considerate friend, Miss Granger—” she nodded to the flowers—“or have I misjudged circumstances?” she asked with false concern. “Perhaps I should be referring to this young man not as your friend but as your baby’s father?” she finished innocently.  
Hermione wasn’t fooled for one second, but before she could formulate a reply (and to her tremendous surprise), McLaggen spoke.  
“Miss Granger and I are simply friends of the baby’s mother, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said, flashing his adorable smile at the older woman. “Permit me to make your acquaintance; I am Cormac McLaggen, Madam,” he said with a tiny bow.  
Hermione stared at him in disbelief, her jaw actually dropping. He was, apparently, more Gryffindor than she! And they way he spoke to Mrs. Malfoy was beyond respectful.  
Where did Cormac go and who is THIS boy? Hermione wondered.  
“Neither of you are the parents of this child?” Narcissa asked, dubiously and still disdainfully, with one beautiful eyebrow raised to her hairline. Hermione just shook her head, but McLaggen answered respectfully.  
“No, we are not. Miss Granger and I are not attached to one another in any way,” he said factually. He gave Hermione (who was staring at him again) a quick, obvious wink and elbowed her playfully, adding leeringly, “though not for lack of me trying, eh, Granger?”  
Hermione grimaced in response.  
Ah—there’s his usual, prattish self.  
Turning his attention back to Narcissa, Cormac said, “I—and many other blokes, too—have tried to obtain the affection of Miss Granger, but our efforts have been in vain. To be frank, no bloke has a chance with her. She’s quite friendly with many ladies, though.”  
Hermione gasped, her face burning in indignation over the lies McLaggen had just told. Narcissa, who had been studying McLaggen intently during his speech, curtly said, “Mister McLaggen, I require to speak with Miss Granger. Alone.”  
Narcissa turned her cold gaze back to Hermione. Hermione said nothing, but caught the look of apprehension on Cormac’s face before he was scolded impatiently by Mrs. Malfoy. It was a bit comical how quickly he made his exit, leaving his flowers on the bed in his haste.  
Coward, Hermione thought bitterly as he left. Then, while a bit dazed, she mused, I can’t believe that I’m sad to see Cormac McLaggen walking away from me!  
Bravely, Hermione forced her gaze to meet Narcissa’s piercing, light blue eyes. The elder witch stepped closer to Hermione and offered her hand.  
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Granger,” she said stiffly and stoically.  
Hermione shivered. She was holding the baby, but she didn’t see that as an acceptable excuse for not properly greeting anyone—let alone Narcissa Malfoy. And, truth be told, she did want to make a good impression upon the witch. Hermione slightly adjusted the tiny babe in her left arm before extending her right arm. As her hand approached Mrs. Malfoy’s, the tall blond shook her wrist a bit so that her robe sleeve fell back onto her forearm and off of her wrist. As Hermione’s eyes zeroed in on Narcissa’s hand, they caught sight of the jewelry attached to the woman’s pale, slender wrist.  
Unconsciously, Hermione’s eyes flashed back to Mrs. Malfoy’s; similarly, her hand flew to her own neck where her Bloodstone choker should be. From the look in Narcissa’s eyes (the rest of her face showing absolutely no emotion), Hermione could tell that Narcissa was gratified by Hermione’s reaction at seeing her choker adorning the elegant wrist of the elder witch.  
Hermione put her hand in Narcissa’s, and the elder witch clasped it briefly….coldly. Mrs. Malfoy waited expectantly for Hermione to speak, but Hermione didn’t know what to say. She was a terrible liar—not that she had any idea of what lie to weave in the first place—and the time for a lie was passed anyhow.  
What can I possibly do? the frightened and nervous part of her brain asked.  
Luckily, a rational part answered. She’s already gotten what she came for, hasn’t she? She saw your reaction to her having your choker, so what else do you have to lose? Tell the truth and get your choker back!  
“Mrs. Malfoy,” she began, looking the woman in the eye as she replaced her right hand to support the baby, “I recently lost a choker that is identical to that which is on your wrist. It….must have come loose and fallen off of my neck as I assisted Madam Pomfrey last night. Forgive my impertinence, but—that bracelet—did you find it in the Hospital Wing this morning, by chance?” Hermione’s voice trembled as she spoke, and she hated herself for what she deemed weakness.  
A miniscule look of satisfaction glimmered in Narcissa’s eyes as her unblemished and manicured hand fingered the choker’s stone. “This jewelry you speak of—it is yours, or does it, too, belong to a friend—like the baby whom you hold?” she asked Hermione.  
Hermione’s face burned now with resentment from being such an easy target for this witch.  
Where is Cho? Where is Madam Pomfrey? Heaven, help me—I’d even be happy if McLaggen walked back in right now—or Snape! Yes, I’d PAY to have Snape here now if only this woman would leave!  
“It is mine, ma’am, unlike this child,” she said with forced calm (trying to offset the effects of her snarky words).  
“Well, then,” Mrs. Malfoy said complacently, “I must either commend you or congratulate you.”  
Hermione cocked her head to one side, questioning that at which Mrs. Malfoy was hinting.  
“This, Miss Granger,” Narcissa explained while admirably stroking the stone and the velvet ribbon wrapped around her dainty wrist, “is a very rare—and therefore expensive—stone….for most people’s incomes, that is. So, I either commend you on your fine taste or congratulate you on the fact that you obviously have someone in your life who cares for you deeply.”  
Yeah, your son. Still feel like congratulating me now?  
“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy….for your congratulations,” she murmured before gazing at the floor. She didn’t know why she hadn’t lied to the woman; maybe because she was still reeling from the knowledge that Draco had given her something so precious, or maybe it was because of the formidability of Draco’s mother. Whatever is was, she didn’t have time to ponder it further because Mrs. Malfoy was speaking again.  
“I did indeed find this piece of jewelry this morning here in the Wing. Care to guess where?” Narcissa self-assuredly asked.  
No need. I know you’re about to tell me.  
“I suppose it could have been anywhere,” Hermione said instead of the truth as she inspected the now-sleeping baby in her arms.  
“This choker could have been anywhere—anywhere you had been last night, of course.” Mrs. Malfoy paused, seemingly for effect. “As it happens, I found it at the bedside of my Draco.”  
Hermione nodded before saying, “Yes, that makes sense. I—I assisted the Healer last night by taking Draco’s vital signs.” She was trying to be outwardly composed; on the inside she was nothing of the sort.  
Narcissa shrewdly examined her, and Hermione felt her face heat up.  
“Remarkable—is it not—that of all the places it could have been lost, it was lost at the safest place possible, instead of it falling into obscurity or encountering damage? Remarkable—is it not—that it was on the bedside table of one of the few here at Hogwarts, I am certain, who would most definitely recognize its value?”  
“There must be a protection spell on it,” Hermione suggested weakly.  
Narcissa made phony laugh. “Oh, my dear,” she said in a tone that made Hermione feel like a child, “then it would not have fallen off of your neck in the first place.”  
Hermione gritted her teeth (despite knowing how damaging it was to the enamel). She was fully aware of what Mrs. Malfoy was implying. She tried to force her lips to smile as Narcissa untied and held out the choker to Hermione.  
“I’m truly grateful to you, Madam,” Hermione said, looking the woman in the eyes now as she reached out for the choker. “Thank you.”  
When Hermione had the stone and ribbon tightly in her fist, she made to place it in her pocket, but she was stopped from doing so; Narcisssa had her wrist clutched in her thin, pale hand.  
“A word of caution, Miss Granger,” she said serenely.  
Hermione’s surprised eyes met Mrs. Malfoy’s, which looked less austere than they had before. Still, Hermione swallowed thickly and nodded.  
“Not everything once lost is found again. You’d do well to always keep close what is most precious to you,” she murmured. Then with one long glance at the sleeping baby, she said, “Congratulate your friend on the birth of her child on behalf of the Malfoy Family.” She then released Hermione’s wrist, turned, and floated out of the ‘room’, pulling the curtain fully closed behind her.  
Hermione released a huge sigh of relief and laid Cedric carefully but quickly in his cot before she sank onto the bed.  
What does Mrs. Malfoy know and what does she think she knows? Hermione wondered nervously as she rubbed her belly.  
Seconds after that thought, Cho returned. “Who was that? What was she doing in here?” she asked with distinct unease in her Scottish accent.  
With a sigh, Hermione sat up slowly and replied quietly, “Mrs. Malfoy.”  
Cho gasped, to which Hermione nodded. “Do they know about Ced?” Cho squealed anxiously.  
“No—no, don’t fret,” Hermione said. “Your secret is safe,” she reassured the new mother. As she hugged her own belly, she said, “Mine, however, is not.” 

~

Hermione had no time that day to sneak back into the Wing to check on Draco. She only made it through the day because she knew that if his status changed for the worse, Madam Pomfrey would summon her.  
So, minutes before curfew, using a Disillusionment Charm, she snuck back to the Wing. Madam Pomfrey was waiting for her and welcomed her back to Draco’s curtained area where she informed Hermione about his day. Mrs. Malfoy had stayed by his side all day until dinner. A few of the Slytherins had dropped in after dinner. The Malfoy’s private Healer had been summoned by Mrs. Malfoy and had completely agreed with Pomfrey’s plan of care for Draco. Mrs. Malfoy had then requested that Draco stay at Hogwarts, and not return to the Manor, for his recovery. Draco’s injuries were healing. That was the good news; the bad news was that he had not yet woken.  
Hermione didn’t have to be told to realize that the longer Draco remained unconscious the less likely he was to return to consciousness, and her tears were already steadily falling when she bade the Madam goodnight. As she was wearing her own pajamas already, she promptly tucked herself into Draco’s bed and snuggled into him as she had the night before.  
Then the dam broke.  
“You have to wake up, Draco,” she sobbed. Please, wake up! (sniff) I miss you (sob) terribly! I….I think….(sniff) I love you! (sob, sniff) I want us to be together. (sniff) I want YOU. (sniff) I want to be YOURS (sniff) and I want you to (sniff) be MINE, but (sniff, sob) I don’t really care if we’re a secret or (sniff, sniff) or not, or just friends. (sniff) Just (sniff) don’t leave me, please, Draco!”  
Exhausted, Hermione lay there quietly weeping as she clung to Draco’s hand, their hands rested on his shoulder.  
Her bare, left forearm pressed against his Marked, left forearm….her unblemished skin, like the purity of her soul, pressed against marred skin, tarnished like Draco’s soul.  
That description of the two of them, those words, were not Hermione’s thoughts as she awaited sleep. However, they were the exact thoughts of the invisible individual who had snuck into the curtained area that was Draco’s room—and who had heard everything.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you, Readers! Thanks to those of you who are still invested in this story! I'm still very much invested, too, and will be posting more soon (the chapters are already written. Yay, me!). I appreciate your support, and i love to hear your theories and to read comments!   
> hugs to you all, PABG


	17. chapter 17

On the morning of May 18, the second morning after Draco and Harry’s duel, Hermione woke to voices. Still bleary-eyed, she barely made out the image of Madam Pomfrey looking down at the bed. After a few blinks to clear her eyes, and even in the dim light of dawn, Hermione saw a huge smile on the Healer’s face, but only when her brain registered hearing a voice that wasn’t Pomfrey’s did she understand why: Draco was awake!   
Hermione shot up—the fastest a twenty-three week pregnant woman could—to a sitting position and peered at Draco. Apparently, he hadn’t known that she’d awakened because her movement startled him. He looked at her with surprised eyes for only a moment before he grabbed her hand and flashed his perfect smile at her. Hermione stared at him, and he at her, all the while answering Madam Pomfrey’s questions regarding his condition. At that moment, Hermione thought that her heart had never been so full, of both happiness and gratitude, and that this was what she wanted for the rest of her life: her and Draco, alive, happy, and together.  
After Pomfrey’s assessment of Draco was complete, she invited Hermione to her office. Mrs. Malfoy would be coming in soon, and the Healer was also keen to make sure that Hermione had a good breakfast (she correctly suspected that the girl probably hadn’t been taking proper care of herself and her babies in the last twenty-four hours).   
The two witches were finishing their meals when a knock sounded on the Healer’s office door. Although Pomfrey had told Draco (in no uncertain terms) to remain in his bed, Hermione secretly hoped it was Draco; she was over the moon with happiness that he was conscious again and she wanted nothing more than to be in his presence. Madam Pomfrey opened the door, which blocked Hermione’s line of sight to know whom it was who had knocked.   
“Madam Malfoy! Uh—good morning—how lovely to see you again,” stammered Pomfrey; Mrs. Malfoy had not ventured to the Healer’s office at any time, this year or any previous, when Draco had been Pomfrey’s patient.  
Hermione, panicked over possibly being seen by Draco’s mother again, missed Mrs. Malfoy’s response, but she heard Pomfrey’s.  
“Allow me to escort you to your son’s bedside, Madam. I believe you will be quite pleased with what you find there.”   
When the office door was closed, Hermione finished her tea and dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Her choker was on her neck already, as she had slept with it on last night, and she performed the Concealment Charm on her belly; she wasn’t about to make the same mistakes twice.   
After grabbing some food for snacking on later (the twins were making her twice as hungry these days), she walked briskly down the Wing—but not briskly enough, for Cho peeked her head out of her room and called for her.   
“Would you spare a moment to mind Cedric for me? I really need to use the loo,” said the soft voice of the Head Girl. “I’m taking my exams today, and I’ve got to get ready for them.”  
“Who’s going to mind Cedric while you’re testing?” Hermione asked, walking into the curtained area, as she was unable to say ‘no’ to the new mother.  
“Madam Pomfrey,” Cho replied as she pointed to her bed where Baby Cedric lay. “I just hope that, while I’m gone, no one gets seriously injured like Malfoy did. She’ll send me a message if she’s overwhelmed in here, though. Be back in a jiff,” she said.  
Sure, thought Hermione, scoffing a bit. ‘In a jiff’—just like yesterday when you left your son with me to use the loo.  
Always a fast learner, Hermione made sure this time that the curtains were closed completely before she picked up the adorable, tiny babe and cooed at him, secretly glad to spend more time with him.  
Minutes later, a voice startled Hermione. “Miss Granger, again I find you here, minding a baby for your friend, who is—again—absent. How….expected.”   
Hermione turned to Narcissa’s voice and saw an amused look on the elder witch’s face—and saw it turn quickly to what Hermione guessed was disappointment. Hermione’s eyes following Narcissa’s gaze, Hermione discovered that the elder witch’s eyes were focused on Hermione’s middle.   
Looking for a bump, no doubt, she deduced, and despite feeling a smug satisfaction, she was also annoyed by Mrs. Malfoy’s action. Annoyed and perturbed because she’d been startled while she held a baby in her arms, Hermione had to work very hard to use a polite tone and to feign an identical expression. “Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy. My friend is in the loo, actually,” she said.   
Narcissa just arched a brow. “Well, that is unfortunate as I was hoping to make her acquaintance,” she stated, ending with a smile.   
I’m sure, Hermione thought sarcastically.  
“I’m sure she’ll be along shortly, Madam,” Hermione said, trying to palliate her annoyance with the witch.   
“Yes, well, I can’t stay long,” said the other witch brusquely, her smile gone. “I brought a gift for the baby. I hope that your friend finds it useful,” said Narcissa, removing a small package from within her robes. She held it out for Hermione to take.   
Déjà vu, thought Hermione.   
Instantly wary of the gift (and the giver), she cautiously moved to accept it. It was rectangular in shape, immaculately wrapped (probably by a house elf, Hermione scowled to herself), and roughly the size of Hermione’s hand.   
“I’m sure my friend will appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Hermione said stiffly as she accepted the gift. Setting it on the bed for Cho, she heard a jingle.   
A rattle—a silver one, no doubt. A ‘useful’ gift indeed.   
When Hermione’s attention returned to Draco’s mother, she caught her staring at Cedric. Just as Hermione couldn’t help being ever curious, she couldn’t help her persistent helpful and sympathetic nature. And so, in true Gryffindor fashion, she bravely said, “My arms are feeling a bit tired. Would you care to hold him, Mrs. Malfoy?”  
A gravelly, gasp-like sound was issued from behind the elder woman, and both witches moved to discover its source. Narcissa gasped as she beheld her son—who was looking directly at Hermione. Hermione was certain that if Draco weren’t already so naturally pale and paler from blood loss, he would have further paled over what she had just done. Hermione’s cheeks instantly burned with regret and embarrassment at her own insensitivity.   
Draco, trained in the art of emotion concealment (and covert operations in general), recovered first. “Mother, allow me to escort you back to my private area. You will be more….comfortable there.” The look he gave Hermione then wasn’t hateful, but it was decidedly unfriendly, and Hermione’s chest tightened. The coldness of Draco’s tone and words and expression stung, even though she knew them to be a farce—  
Wait, WERE THEY? She’d just committed a faux pas—a grievous one—against his mother! She could completely understand if Draco were not faking his disdain for her now as he usually did when the two of them were around others.  
Narcissa recovered quickly from her shock at the surprises of the last few moments and turned her attention to her son. “Draco, you shouldn’t be walking about! Let’s get you back to bed, darling,” she scolded. She ushered Draco out of Cho’s room, but not before she snootily said over her shoulder, “Put the child in his cot, girl.” 

~

That day, Hermione did not once raise her hand in classes to either inquire or answer—she wasn’t even listening to the information being discussed. She barely spoke, and she barely ate. Alternatively, she fretted, cried, and agonized over her encounters (yesterday’s and today’s—although today’s was much more thought-plaguing) with Mrs. Malfoy. She feared that Draco would not forgive her.   
That night, after her dorm mates were asleep, a pajama-clad and Disillusioned Hermione sneaked down to the Wing. She grinned when she realized that Madam Pomfrey had left the door unlocked for her.   
She thought that Draco was asleep when she reached his room, but he stirred as she sat down on his bed. In the soft moonlight, she saw Draco’s gorgeous eyes find hers and she froze. Suddenly, she was thankful for the charm keeping Draco on his back; she wasn’t certain of a warm welcome.   
“I’m so very sorry, Draco,” she blurted softly. “What I did was awful. I’m asking for your forgiveness, but I understand if you won’t and if you want me to leave—”  
“No,” he growled, reaching for her. He felt her shrink back slightly at his touch.  
“No, I don’t want you to leave, Mione,” he said in a whiny, less threatening tone. “It’s….alright. I forgive you.”  
“I didn’t do it to—”   
“I know. I knew then that you didn’t mean to hurt her; you were just trying to….be you. Kind.” Draco pulled Hermione’s hand to him, placing a kiss to her knuckles before holding it tightly to his chest.  
“But your mother—how was she after I did that?”  
“Well,” he began, slowly letting go of a deep breath, “She has many things troubling her right now, and so she recovered and seemed to forget all about it rather quickly.”  
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.  
“Stay with me. Please?” Draco pleaded as he tugged on her arm.  
Hermione grinned as she climbed into the bed next to Draco and snuggled into his warm form. She became a ball of nerves again, however, when she remembered that she had to tell Draco what had happened while he was sleeping.   
“Draco, something happened. Your—”  
“Hermione?”  
“Yes?”  
Draco’s right hand brushed back hair that had fallen over Hermione’s face, obstructing half of it from Draco’s view. He pushed it back behind her ear, where his hand lingered. “I missed you, Mione,” he whispered.   
Hermione smiled sweetly. “And I you,” she said, her own fingers now running through his hair, so downy, so silver in the light of the moon.   
Draco’s hand began caressing Hermione’s cheek and then neck….and then shoulder….and then clavicle. He saw Hermione swallow thickly and he relaxed, knowing now that she was just as nervous as he was but that she also was enjoying his touch.  
“I was a right mess while you were unconscious. I was so worried, Draco,” she whispered back, tears forming in her eyes.   
His hand made its way to her neck again, his fingers splayed and caressing each spot they touched. His eyes searched Hermione’s face.   
As if he is nervous, Hermione thought of his actions and demeanor.   
“I feel like I’ve been through hell, Mione,” he breathed, staring at her lips. “Remind me what heaven is like.”  
Ever so carefully, Hermione leaned over him to kiss him. She kissed him lightly, but he responded fervently, and the kiss evolved into a heated snog. His hand was in her hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her closer. Minutes later, and only when they’d became breathless—both from the lengthy kiss, Draco from his weakness, and Hermione from her heavy belly weighing her down and her weak arm muscles holding her off of him—did they came up for air, panting.   
“That was worth the last few days,” Draco said with a winded smirk. Hermione laughed and nodded, her rosy-cheeks pinking further.  
Draco grinned and pulled her back to him for another snog. It wasn’t easy, considering Hermione’s physique, Draco’s injuries, and the Sticking Charm, and it didn’t last as long as their prior kiss had. Draco tried to move closer to her, and when he couldn’t, he cursed (then quickly apologized). Giggling a bit and ignoring his cursing, Hermione snuggled into him closer than before.   
They both laid quietly until Draco asked, “Sing to me, Mione, like the angel you are?”  
She sang—how could she refuse the one she loved? All of her problems could wait until the morning.  
Draco fell asleep to her voice, and Hermione fell asleep to thoughts of the future: the two of them alive, happy, and together.

~

In the morning, Hermione’s worry over her problems returned immediately upon waking, despite the exquisite sleep she’d had in Draco’s bed. Until he woke, she lay next to him, fretting all the while; after Draco woke and returned from his morning trip to the loo, Hermione pounced on him.  
“Draco, your mother saw my belly without the charm two days ago—did she tell you?”  
Draco nodded, rubbing his eyes.  
“She knows that I’m pregnant—or she thinks that the baby I was holding is mine….doesn’t she?”  
Finally, Draco could satiate his curiosity! He’d been waiting all day to learn who’d given birth at Hogwarts. He eased himself into his bed, sitting with his back against the frame. “Whose baby were you holding?” he asked with a brow raised.   
“I promised the mother that I wouldn’t tell anyone,” she said apologetically, sitting herself next to him but facing him.  
“Was she raped, too?” Draco queried abruptly.   
“No. She denied being raped,” Hermione informed him. He grunted but said nothing distinct. “Your mother, Draco,” she reminded him, “What does she think—or know—about me?”  
Draco forced his thoughts away from Hermione’s rape and the disaster that was the ‘Polyjuice situation’ and back to the conversation he and his mother had yesterday.   
“As for Miss Granger: Frankly, I’m having trouble believing that she is truly the ‘brightest witch of your age.’ If I saw her obviously with child, then so did that McLaggen boy and who knows who else. Do something, Draco.”  
“Your secret is still safe, Hermione,” Draco said fervently.  
“So she doesn’t know?” Hermione asked incredulously. “Surely she suspects, then?”  
Draco paused, cursing in his mind; he couldn’t lie to her entirely. “She does know—”  
Hermione whimpered and opened her mouth to speak, but Draco was faster.  
“You have got to be more careful from now on, Hermione—”   
“I know, but—”  
“Cast the charm in the morning and again before you sleep, just to be safe,” Draco ordered.  
“I will—but what about your mother? What if she tells—” Hermione cut herself off abruptly, because she was about to say ‘Voldemort.’ Saying that would lead to more than she was supposed tell Draco (and to a much more awkward conversation).  
“Your secret’s still safe, Mione,” Draco said gently, “and so it will remain.”  
“How are you so sure?”  
Draco did not (and never would) doubt his mother’s loyalty to him—or her Occlumency skill (which, in his and his mother’s world, was a very necessary faculty). His mother would keep Hermione’s pregnancy from the Dark Lord—and from all others, for that matter—because doing so would protect Draco.   
Draco considered telling Hermione about his secret—for all of two seconds—before he realized that he had no choice but to lie about what his mother had suspected (and then determined correctly) about Hermione. The ‘new’ Draco hated lying to Hermione, and lying to her about lying—well, that just made him feel more like his old scummy self and less like the man she had come to care about.  
“She’ll do anything to protect me—even if that means keeping my relationship with a Muggleborn a secret.”  
Hermione’s literally jaw dropped and her heart figuratively was in her throat. “You told her about US?” she squealed as she leaned forward in definite interest.   
Draco smirked; she no longer looked like a beaver (her teeth were gorgeous now, he thought), but she sure sounded like a squirrel—or a cute, little chipmunk. And even harried, she was appealing to him. He nodded until he could force his mirth at her reaction away enough to speak. “Well, I told her a partial truth about us.” Then he paused to tease her.  
With an erratic waving of her hand, Hermione commanded, “More, Draco. I need more, here.”   
Draco laughed at her impatience and caught her flailing hand in his, holding it tight. “Well, you aren’t a good liar,” he said and then sarcastically adding, “apparently.”   
Hermione began to protest, which made Draco laugh again. “No, no, no. No use trying to deny it,” he said, wagging finger at her.   
Hermione batted his wagging digit away and said, “Explain, please!”  
Laughing again, Draco said, “Mother told me that she found your choker on my bedside table that first morning and that she knew it was yours from the moment she confronted you about it. True?”  
Hermione blushed as she was still embarrassed over the whole thing, frowned, and then grumbled, “Yeah,” (Draco nodded superciliously at her), “but it was more of an interrogation, to be honest.”   
Hermione’s complaint caused Draco to chuckle.   
“It’s not funny!” Hermione protested. “You weren’t there—”   
“No, damn my luck—”  
“—it was excruciating!” Hermione whined, giving Draco a playful shove to his arm for his cheek and his swear word.   
Huffing, Hermione sat up straighter and crossed her legs as Draco tried to control his laughter. He’d really been (and still was) entertained by the events with the choker, his mother, and Hermione. He fondly pulled her closer to him.  
Hermione scooted closer readily, trying to mask her smile at his laughter. She loved his laugh and what it did for his patrician features; his eyes crinkled and he had a tiny dimple that was never seen otherwise. Most of all, she loved seeing the total absence of worry on his handsome face.  
“As she’d already determined that there was something between us,” Draco said proudly as he ran his long fingers through her wild, morning-mane, “I took the advantage.”  
“And?”  
“Well, she thought, at first, that the baby you were holding for….whomever….was yours and that tosser’s.” Just the thought of Hermione smiling at (let alone doing anything else with) ‘that tosser’ made Draco’s blood boil.  
“McLaggen?” she asked, grimacing.  
“Yes,” Draco growled before turning his head away from her and saying under his breath, “Bloody nancy boy-prat-tosser.”  
The talk of McLaggen turned a light bulb on in Hermione’s head. “Oh, Draco….what should I do about Cormac? He saw my bump, too.” She felt Draco tense at her use of McLaggen’s first name.   
“Don’t worry about McLaggen,” he said.   
“Wha….what do you—why not?” she sputtered.  
“He’s forgotten all about it,” Draco said flippantly with a careless flicking of his hand.   
She scoffed. “You think so? ‘Hermione Granger being pregnant’ is not the sort of run-of-the-mill information one would easily forget.”  
“Unless he was made to forget,” Draco quietly said, looking at the ceiling.  
Hermione gasped at Draco’s reference to a Memory Charm.  
“It’s not an Unforgivable, Hermione,” he said, slightly annoyed, with a furrowed brow.  
“I know,” Hermione said haughtily, now slightly annoyed as well. “It just….seems so….invasive—and it can go terribly wrong if not done properly,” she finished in her ‘classroom tone’—the tone she used when answering questions in class.  
“It is, and it can,” Draco agreed with a curt nod. “But that’s not a concern in this instance. The person who performed it is very capable.”  
Hermione was biting her lip. “Who took care of it?”  
Draco internally sighed. Why did his girlfriend have to be so inquisitive?   
“My godfather,” he replied, trying to sound as flippant as he could.  
Draco’s godfather, she thought, as faces of Death Eaters swarmed her mind’s eye.  
It was obvious to Draco that Hermione had an idea—a quite reasonable and not-too-far-from-the-truth one, he wagered—of whom his godfather was. Still, he’d have to confirm any suspicion (mostly to put her out of her misery). Hermione heard him clear his throat before he said, “Snape.”  
Hermione gawked at him. “Professor Snape?” she shrieked. Draco nodded, assuming that Hermione was upset about the fact that Snape knew she was pregnant and thought the child was Draco’s.  
Hermione, however, had believed that Snape knew about the Prophecy from the beginning as he was a member of the Order and trusted so keenly by Professor Dumbledore. She was, indeed, more shocked to learn that a man trusted by Professor Dumbledore and in the Order was so close to Draco’s family than she was shocked that Snape had protected the secret of her pregnancy. Unfortunately, Draco was not explaining that which she really wanted to know.  
“It had to be done to protect you and the twins and….” ME, he was thinking, ruminating on how he’d failed his task….how he’d been so stupid with the Polyjuice….how he’d landed Hermione in her current state of ‘pregnant’ and her and her twins in their state of ‘in danger.’  
Draco cleared his throat again and said quietly. “There’s no need to fear him knowing about your pregnancy. He’ll protect you….because he promised my mother.”  
Hermione nodded absently, not really listening as she was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that Snape was Draco’s godfather. Eventually, she tilted her head contemplatively. “So, why are you certain about your mother keeping my secret?”  
“Ah, yes, that….she thought that the baby was yours with McLaggen, as I said—”  
“But why? He told your mother that he and I were only friends. He even said that I’m—”  
“I know what he told her,” Draco scowled as he thought of the lie about his girlfriend’s sexuality that McLaggen had told. “She didn’t believe him for one second,” he added.   
“She didn’t believe that I’m only interested in girls, or she didn’t believe that the baby was not mine and McLaggen’s?” Hermione clarified.   
Draco paused, pondering those statements before answering; coming up with lies while recovering from death’s door was mentally exhausting. He realized that he was starting to sweat. Luckily for Draco, his inherent traits of ambition, cunning, and resourcefulness always aided him well, and they, combined with his current, strong desire for self-preservation and avoidance (possibly the greatest factor in his immediate predicament), led Draco to do what he did next.   
“Both. So, I had to lie,” Draco said flippantly. “I told her that McLaggen was lying about your, um, preferences, but that he was doing it to cover for....us.”  
Hermione just stared at Draco, who nodded and continued explaining the ‘lie’ he’d told his mother. “I said that McLaggen (being your fellow Gryffindor and the Head Boy) was covering for us because we are together and we….” Draco paused, blushing, “….made that baby.”  
Hermione gasped. “What did she say? She must have been shocked—and furious!” With all of the information her mind had been hit with in such a short time, she was failing to keep her head. Draco could tell by the squeakiness in her voice that was losing control of her emotions quickly. “Oh! She will surely tell your father, and then—”  
“She won’t, Hermione,” Draco said firmly.   
Hermione was baffled. “Why wouldn’t she tell your father?” she asked breathlessly.   
“Father has a lot to deal with at the moment,” Draco genuinely replied (feeling genuinely uncomfortable as well).  
Hermione couldn’t dispute that. However….  
“Well, surely she’ll tell—” she gasped, then continued “—What if she ALREADY DID tell someone, and….” You-Know-Who finds out, she finished to herself. The ramifications of the Order failing in the War—because of HER—flashed before her eyes, and she was terrified.  
Draco noticed Hermione’s departure from reality, and so he gently shook her arm, bringing her right back. She stared at him intently, her eyes wide and her self-control barely in check.   
“Draco, the twins….they are….very important.”  
He nodded; he knew just how important—and to whom—they were.   
“I know this is going to sound barmy, but….” Hermione bit her lip and closed her eyes. She seemed to be battling with herself.   
“Mione, she won’t tell anyone, I swear. Trust me.”   
Eyes open now, Hermione’s gaze bored into Draco’s eyes. “I trust you, but….how can you be so sure about your mother? I mean, I understand that she’d hide your secrets out of love for you, but what would induce her to hide my—”   
Draco looked up to the ceiling at the same instant in which Hermione finally understood. Blood flooded her cheeks as stupidity, embarrassment, and indignation flooded through her whole body. “Ah, I see. She won’t tell anyone because of the….scandal that it is,” she said.  
Hermione’s penetrative stare at Draco pulled his eyes back to her. His greys focused on her browns solely and without blinking, as if they were entreating on his behalf.   
Though Hermione saw regret in Draco’s eyes, it did nothing for her temper. She crossed her arms over her chest as she lost every hold on her emotions, and her next words dripped with disdain. “You knew, of course, that she’d hide your dirty, little love affair with a filthy, little Mudblood—”  
“Don’t call yourself THAT!” he growled.   
“—especially one that produced a bastard child—”  
“Or them THAT!” He wasn’t angry—per se—just affronted by the words that he’d come to despise.  
Everything Pansy had said two days ago came rushing back to Hermione’s mind. It was one thing for Pansy to have said those things, but for Draco to actually use those sentiments….that prejudicial attitude….in relation to her….well, it cut deep. Logically, she could concede that what Draco had done was a good idea (she’d probably have employed the tactic herself in any other scenario that didn’t include herself); that didn’t make it any easier of a pill to swallow.  
When Draco saw tears glistening as they rolled down and off of Hermione’s cheeks, he sighed and turned his face back to the ceiling. In trying to reassure her, he’d ended up hurting her. She was miserable—he was miserable, too—and not even because of something real! And it was his fault—again! The self-loathing he felt on a daily basis was now at an all-time high. Passing his hands over his face, he mumbled, “You’re not actually my dirty, little secret….but, that was the idea. I had to do it to protect you.”  
“Brilliant plan. Thank you, for that,” she said sarcastically but without any bite.   
“I’m not ashamed of you—or our baby,” he declared, before he realized that he’d said something daft. Closing his eyes, he added, “You know, our….fictitious, hypothetical baby.” Draco’s voice turned sweet as he implored her—cajoled her—to trust him, “It was only for your protection, Mione….all three of you. I swear. It’s only a lie and nothing more.”  
They were quiet for some time before Hermione asked in a stoic tone, “She won’t spill my secret—I believe that now—but will she try to harm me because I dared to ingratiate myself upon someone above my blood status—because I slept around with her son and allowed myself to ‘get up the duff’ like the mudblood whore I am?”  
Before Draco could answer (and it was going to be one heck of a vehement, ‘You are not a whore, Hermione!’), Hermione continued.  
“I mean, think of how it looks to her, Draco: that I tricked you—the rich, Malfoy heir—into getting me—a poor Muggle slag—pregnant!” Then she stiffened before she shooting up off of the bed, moving faster than she had in recent months. She screeched, “Or the baby—the one she saw me with—would she hurt him? Oh! He’s not even my baby—he’s not even yours!”  
“She won’t try to harm you, or any baby, or anyone,” Draco asserted, clenching his jaw, and really regretting his lie now. Hermione scoffed, sparking Draco’s temper. “Honestly, Hermione: how much of a bitch do you think my mother is?”  
Hermione had the grace to flush but quickly retorted. “Of course I’d think she isn’t happy about you being with me and making a baby with me! She showed me how she feels about me—without even knowing me!—last summer at Madam Malkin’s! She’s a member of the Black family—you know, the notorious Blood Purists who disclaim family members when they—Heaven forbid—have independent opinions? Besides all that, she’s a Death Eater’s wife, Draco!”  
First off, Draco wanted to say, she did know exactly who you were when she saw you last summer. But that, of course, was not the prudent thing to say; what he did say wasn’t either, however.  
“You’re a Death Eater’s girlfriend,” Draco countered in a matter-of-fact tone (and in what, he would later decide, was an attempt to defend his mother’s honor).   
Hermione was clearly taken aback—mentally and physically, too, as she took a large step away from Draco’s bedside. “Am I the girlfriend of a Death Eater?” she asked, her voice trembling.  
Draco cursed himself for his thoughtless retort. He let out a sigh of frustration and began again. “Look, Granger, my mother—”  
“Granger,” Hermione murmured as she took tiny steps away from the bed—away from Draco.   
Perhaps this is some Slytherin modus operandi, Hermione contemplated.   
Maybe Draco just likes to fight, and he’s exhibiting it now for the first time in our relationship? she wondered.  
Maybe the Slytherin girls like to fight, and he’s assuming you do, too?  
Hermione, however, did not like to fight. Whenever she’d fought with Harry and Ron (and, most recently, Ginny), she’d hated it. And although she had fought with Draco in the past, they had been enemies at the time; she’d never fought with a boyfriend before. She didn’t know how to handle it (the pregnancy hormones weren’t helpful either).   
Maybe this argument really isn’t as big of a deal to Draco as it is to you?   
But it is a big deal! another voice replied. He called her ‘a Death Eater’s girlfriend’!  
After that, Hermione’s brain wouldn’t entertain other thoughts, rational or irrational—not with Draco’s words endlessly looping through her mind.  
“Let’s just….forget this,” she suggested before turning her back on him. She was so flustered and angry and indignant and forlorn and confused that she wasn’t even sure what she meant by the word ‘this.’ The fight? Their relationship?  
A tiny voice in her brain screamed, ‘No! I don’t want this!’  
But it was answered by another voice saying, ‘He admitted to being a Death Eater!’  
Draco cursed the Sticking Charm that had him, once again, essentially pinned to the bed (except for his upper body) as he tried in vain to grab her hand and pull her back to him. He reached for his wand to undo the Sticking Charm, but it was out of his reach. He cursed himself for his inability to do wandless magic. He didn’t even realize that he’d called Hermione by her surname for the first time in months—since the start of their relationship.  
When Hermione reached the gap in the curtain that was the room’s entry and exit point, Draco barked, “Hermione!” Slowly, she turned to face him and was surprised that he didn’t appear to be as angry as she’d expected, though he was silent.  
Draco was struggling to find words—well, the right words. He clenched his jaw to avoid saying the words that he wished he could say; those words were verboten, however, and when he could not find acceptable words to replace them, his brows turned into a fierce frown and his mouth a hard line.  
Hermione took that to mean that Draco wanted to ‘forget this’, too. That she wasn’t worth this argument for him. That he decided that she wasn’t worth what he had told his mother about them. That he didn’t feel as strongly for her as she felt for him; he must not love her like she loved him. He probably realized that she really was and always would be just his dirty, little secret.  
Before tears could completely obscure her already cloudy vision, she said, “Bye, then,” as she slipped through the gap in the privacy curtain.  
“Don’t,” Draco commanded through a too-hoarse throat. “Don’t go,” he tried again, forcing his voice’s volume to go higher. “Hermione, come back!” he yelled. However, the curtain had closed and the Silencing Charm was fully in place once again, and Hermione did not hear his pleas. 

~


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a request for more "fluff." Well, i already had this chapter ready to go at that time, but, as you will see, i fulfilled the request for fluff! Enjoy!

-May 23, 1997  
On the last night that Draco was to be remanded to the Wing, the Sticking Charm and the barrier-pillow were removed with the stern instruction from Madam Pomfrey that he was to remain in bed and that, should he have a visitor during the night, he was to sleep.   
Each of the previous nights since he’d become conscious, Madam Pomfrey had offered him a Sleeping Potion or a Calming Draught. The first night after he regained consciousness he’d refused the Madam’s offer; he had known that his sweet witch would arrive at curfew and that no potion or draught would do more for him than her presence and soothing voice would.   
That was the night of their fight, and although he’d fallen asleep that night before Hermione had arrived, he hadn’t slept well after she’d gone.  
Each night thereafter, he’d declined the potion and draught in hopes that Hermione would return, rendering the use of the aides pointless. She did not return, however, and subsequently, each night in the Wing, the torment that had caused him to confide in Moaning Myrtle had crept back to haunt him. He got very little quality sleep those four nights.  
During the day, his mind was occupied with schoolwork and conversations with visitors, no matter how banal they were (those with Parkinson, for example), and so he was able to keep the mental anguish at bay. At night, he only had Hermione’s recorded voice in his wand for comfort, though it never compared to having the real thing (the loss of her warm bodily presence, enticing scent, and pretty face aside).  
All Draco had of those things were memories….and fantasies.

His witch was with him in his room….in his bed….at the Manor. After much snogging, a breathless Draco pulled back and gazed at Hermione. His grey eyes moved from her innocent, striking brown ones to her puffy, pink lips and then to her throat, where lay the Bloodstone choker—the choker that symbolized his renouncement of the idea of blood purity.   
Every fantasy of Draco’s was of their first time together, no matter what happened between them in reality or in his past fantasies; and, in every fantasy, they both were giving their virginities to one another (which was quite paradoxical as Hermione’s pregnant belly made a cameo in nearly all of Draco’s fantasies). No matter how Hermione had been clad in his previous fantasies, it was always a new experience for Draco; he always saw her body, however it was clad, however it was bared, as unchartered territory. Virgin territory.   
In this fantasy, Hermione was wearing only a skimpy, white, satin bra and satin boyshorts-style knickers, and as much as he enjoyed and was content with kissing her, Draco couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. Draco slowly let his gaze fall below her choker to her bra-clad curves; they were getting bigger each week, and he shivered in anticipation of what they’d look like at their ‘peak.’ He kept his hands to himself as he ogled her satin-covered breasts (even in his fantasies, his upbringing told him to restrain himself from getting too carried away, it seemed), but when his gaze fell to her naked belly, he stroked it with feather-light touches made by the pads of his fingers.   
Her navel (true to reality at this point in her pregnancy) was now neither an ‘innie’ nor an ‘outie,’ and she giggled when he poked it. He smiled playfully at her before his interest was pulled to the curve of her boney hip; eyes and hands moved synchronously now. Already at her hip, the temptation to caress her buttocks was too great for him to resist. He’d never touched her there before (in reality, that is), and that made the fantasy experience even more tempting and rewarding for him. They both blushed as he explored there. His gaze and hand eventually resumed their wandering, going to the lovely dip in her lower back….then to her hip….then to her taught belly again….then to her arm and up to her shoulder and clavicle….then to her neck….then to her rosy cheek….and finally into her coconut-scented curls. His long fingers caressed the nape of her neck and pulled her face closer to his with a gentle pressure.   
Hermione brought her mouth to his eagerly. Their kissing lasted long minutes, perhaps even hours—who knew?—as all time stops in dreams. All that Dream Draco knew when the kissing ended was that it was not enough. He wanted to kiss her forever.   
Hermione rolled to her left side and fit her lean-though-pregnant body into his front—his naked front, as he always slept starkers when alone. Draco groaned as ‘all that made him male’ was stimulated by the satin knickers, the softness of her skin, and the warmth of her body. Though their heads lay on the most luxurious pillows covered in silk, his left bicep pillowed her neck; he could feel her warm breath floating across the Mark on his forearm, tickling the tiny hairs and sensitive skin and making him shiver. He breathed in the enticing scent of her silky curls as his right arm wrapped around her belly and rubbed it affectionately. He felt the twins move inside of her.   
“They love you,” Hermione crooned as she placed her hand on top of his on her belly, interlacing their fingers.  
“I love them,” Draco returned, placing a kiss to her bare shoulder. “Because I love you, Mione,” he confessed. His consciousness realized that he’d never actually said those words to the real Hermione but that they felt as natural and as easy leaving his mouth as did each breath he took.  
Hermione giggled. (oh, how he loved a giggly Hermione!) “You’re just saying that to get into my knickers, Draco Malfoy.”  
Draco buried his head into the curls at the nape of her neck and placed a wet kiss there. “Nuh-uh,” he grunted. “I’ll wait for you forever, witch. Even if you leave me, I’ll wait for you.”  
“I’ll never leave you, Draco,” Hermione promised.  
“Never leave me, Mione,” Draco murmured as he sucked on Hermione’s neck where it met her shoulder. Hermione lifted his forearm to her mouth and said, “I love you, Draco. I know this isn’t you,” as she kissed and sucked on the image of the Dark Mark.  
After several minutes of such attention, Hermione (using a phrase that the real Draco had uttered just a few nights previous) cooed, “Show me what Heaven is like, Draco.” Dream Draco didn’t have to be told twice; but this time, the phrase led to much more than just heavy snogging. His hand crept higher until it caressed the satiny fabric covering Hermione’s breasts, and again, as this was not something he’d done before in reality, the fantasy was all the sweeter for him. The real Draco could only imagine what sounds witches made in the throes of passion, but his imagination made up for actual knowledge in all of his fantasies, and this one was no exception. Dream Hermione was releasing high-pitched sighs and whispering, “That’s heavenly,” as he kissed and explored her. Draco whispered a litany of, “I love you, Mione,” in between delivering his own kisses and sucks on her smooth skin. The feeling of her silky, hot skin against his own pervaded his dream body, and at the same time, his consciousness was aware of the same sensations in his physical body.   
Suddenly, the erotic dream eroded to a scene wherein Hermione was giving birth to the twins in the very hospital in which he lay dreaming. He stood by her side, holding her hand as her smiling face looked at him with adoration and she told him over and over, ‘I love you!’ The sound of baby cries were heard next, and as Draco turned his head toward the newborn, Hermione started screaming—a bone-chilling, blood-curdling scream. The dream then evolved again. Draco was now standing across from Hermione in a large room. Hermione screamed, ‘I trusted you, Draco! How could you do this to me?’ as Voldemort tortured her with spells unknown. Draco was powerless to stop his Dark Lord, and he was forced to watch—he couldn’t force himself to look away. Voldemort released Hermione from her torture and then collected one twin from Snape, who was holding both twins upside down by their ankles. Cradling the babe’s head in one large, disgusting hand, with the babe’s body laid on the length of his arm, Voldemort ran a filthy nail across the babe’s face and body. With a maniacal gleam in his eye, he then pressed his palm over the face of the infant. Hermione’s screaming hit a new level of agony. Next, Voldemort turned the child’s face to Hermione before he carefully handed the child to Bellatrix, who gleefully took the child to her breast. The Dark Lord then repeated his sick ritual with the other twin, again showing Hermione, and again handing the child to Bellatrix. Bellatrix cooed at the babes as she nursed them. Hermione was stilling screaming. Draco fought his way through a crowd of Death Eaters to see the twins, and when he got close enough, Bellatrix proudly displayed the twins’ faces. He let out a feral scream at the sight of them; Voldemort had turned Hermione’s twins into tiny, red-eyed, nose-less demons. Draco stared at the helpless babes as his screams blended with Hermione’s. Then, abruptly, Hermione’s screams ceased, and all Draco heard was the maniacal, hissing laughter of Voldemort. Draco realized that while he had screamed in mourning for the twins, Voldemort had hissed and pointed his wand at their mother, forever silencing her.

Draco woke up screaming and thrashing in his sheets. He didn’t know it, but it took him five minutes to realize that he’d been dreaming and that Hermione and the twins were safe. He was hot and sweaty, and after pushing away his blankets, he reached for his wand, performing a Cooling Charm on himself. His throat was parched and sore from screaming; he nonverbally performed the Aguamenti Charm to fill his glass with water again and again, until swallowing was not uncomfortable.   
Madam Pomfrey’s harried form and the light from the tip of her wand appeared suddenly in the darkness. “Mr. Malfoy! Is everything alright?”   
Draco jumped, his wand pointed at her and a spell on the tip of his tongue, at the sound of her voice. “I’d like….to take you up on the offer….for the Dreamless Sleep Potion, Madam Pomfrey,” Draco requested with the greatest amount of aristocratic pride he could muster at the moment (which was not much).   
As the Healer bustled away to fulfill his request, Draco laid down and used the charm of his own invent to hear Hermione sing to him through his wand. He felt his body relaxing incrementally, and soon his eyes were closed, too.  
When Madam Pomfrey returned with the Potion, she found the disembodied voice of Hermione Granger, singing, and Draco Malfoy, sleeping. Pomfrey was about to return to her office to pen a note, which would become a flying memo (exactly like those that the Ministry of Magic utilized) that would deliver itself to its intended recipient in the Castle; but a whispered voice stopped her.  
She gasped before a disembodied voice (not Hermione’s) said, “Do not fear, Poppy. It is only me.”  
Madam Pomfrey sighed in relief before she asked, “Did you witness him dreaming?”  
The voice from the still-invisible man replied, “I saw part of his dream—too much, I admit—and all of his nightmare—which I caused.”  
Pomfrey clucked in disapproval. “Was that really necessary? He’s still convalescing, after all.”  
“Let us just say, ‘It’s for the greater good’, Poppy,” the voice stoically replied. 

~

Since the day he’d been discharged from the Hospital Wing (almost two weeks ago), Draco had spent nearly every waking and sleeping moment in the Room of Hidden Things. His mother’s words from her visit with him in the Wing were on constant repeat in his brain. They tortured him and depressed him, but they also pushed him, driving his will to complete his task.   
“Your failure in the task relating to Miss Granger is not yet known to the Dark Lord. Severus is bound to me through the Unbreakable Vow, Draco. He vowed to watch over you and to protect you; he will not inform the Dark Lord of the….situation with the girl. Your attempts at the other task have reached the Dark Lord’s ears, however. The Dark Lord, as he delights so in our family’s failures, has been….entertained by your attempts, but he will not show leniency to you, my son,” she’d said.   
Draco knew that his mother was being punished, somehow, for his failures; he knew just what punishments the Dark Lord delighted in bestowing upon those who failed him—especially upon Malfoys who failed him. Draco wanted to curse himself for all that his mother must have been enduring because of him. “I am so very sorry, Mother,” he’d said, biting back tears, trying to be the man that his father was not, “for your torture—and degradation—”  
“Draco, listen to me,” his mother had interrupted. “I can endure it, but I could not endure losing you. I will endure anything—DO anything—to ensure your safety.”  
Draco had nodded and stifled his tears before his thoughts turned to everything that Hermione, too, had been enduring because of his failure. As if his mother had read his thoughts, she had addressed Hermione’s situation.   
“You could not have prevented Miss Granger’s rape, Draco.”  
He’d scoffed and then looked at her inquisitively, surprise evident in his features. “How did you—”  
“I just do, Draco. A mother can just tell these things,” Narcissa had replied flippantly.  
That was oddly vague, he’d thought in passing before he began to argue his point about him actually being responsible—not only by omission, but (worse) by commission, too.  
“I know you feel culpable, Draco, but you were not. Miss Granger being raped is terrible, and I lament it, too, but she is a strong young woman. She will be fine.”  
Since his horrific nightmare, the sounds of Hermione’s torturous screams plus his mother’s attempt at reassuring words—her ‘She will be fine’—were constantly at battle with one another in Draco’s head. Foregoing proper sleep and most meals and showers, he worked tirelessly on repairing the Vanishing Cabinet; his mother’s words, and not his dream, must come out of the literal battle—the battle of fate—victorious. He would not fail Hermione.  
So, he worked incessantly, and in the same way, he pined for Hermione. Every day, in the last few seconds of consciousness before he succumbed to sleep (no matter what time of day or night at which that happened to be), he’d write in his journal—the sister journal to Hermione’s. He never received an answer.  
But his wand gave him a pretty good indication of what was going through Hermione’s mind without her having to inscribe it. When he invented the charm to copy whatever Hermione sang while wearing her choker, he (unknowingly) charmed more than just the sound of singing to be recorded. The Bloodstone was also charmed to record the vibrations of speech interspersed with sobbing—as speaking while crying produces vibrations very similar to those created during singing.   
Fortunately for Draco, Hermione had been doing much speaking while sobbing—hard and often—since their row. He was privy to some very interesting things—things that included, “If I am just his secret, I don’t care,” and, “He can’t be a real Death Eater!” and, “What have I done?”   
If that hadn’t been enough to boost his spirits, he’d also found that her choker had recorded her sobbing and speaking while he had been unconscious in the Hospital Wing, too. That was how he learned that she loved him, and ever since, he’d been working like a madman (or a whipped man), trying to finish his task so he could be with the girl he loved.

\--

-June 5, 1997  
In the morning, Hermione’s obsessively organized planner alerted her that it was the date of Draco’s birthday. A month ago, through the Muggle-Magical Owl Post Service, she had ordered a gift for him. It was already wrapped. It was already monogramed. She couldn’t return it. So, she sent it to him via a school owl the morning of his birthday. She hadn’t seen him at meals for nearly a week, but she was taking a chance that maybe, because it was his birthday, he’d not skive off breakfast that day.  
Hermione had barely sat down at the Gryffindor Table by Harry and Ginny (who were now an official couple) and Ron and “Lav Lav” (whose relationship, it seemed to Hermione, was becoming more and more one-sided) when the owls began their deliveries. She desperately tried to catch a glimpse of Draco, and when she did, she found his gorgeous grey eyes on her from across three tables. Other students frequently walked between them, but, as if by magic, no one permanently blocked their view of one another. Hermione, therefore, saw the owl that she had commissioned, among several other owls with gifts for him, land in front of Draco. She saw his face when he read the tag on the package from her; she’d only written his name on it, of course, but she knew he’d recognize her handwriting. With a tiny smile and tilt of his head at the package, he thanked her before tucking the still-wrapped gift into his robe.   
He stared at her. She looked away in time to see a school owl drop a card on her lap. The high quality of the paper surprised her, and her heart skipped several beats at the thought—the hope—that it may be from Draco. Opening it under the table, she read the note, written in a beautiful and familiar script.

‘Take me back in the arms I love  
Need me like you did before  
Touch me once again, and remember when there was no one that you wanted more  
Don't go you know you'll break my heart, and you know I'll be standing here still  
I'll be waiting for you here inside my heart  
I'm the one who wants to love you more  
You will see I can give you everything you need  
Let me be the one to love you more  
See me as if you never knew  
Hold me so you can't let go  
Just believe in me  
I will make you see all the things that your heart needs to know  
Some way all the love that we had can be saved  
What ever it takes we'll find a way’

Below the lyrics to the song (“To Love You More” by Celine Dion), which had become their song, were the words, “I’m sorry. Forgive me?” along with a request to meet him that night in the Room of Hidden Things (or anywhere she wanted).  
Misty-eyed, she told her inquisitive friends and tablemates that her delivery was from her parents as she tucked the card into her robes. Her eyes slowly moved and locked onto Draco’s face, still unblocked across the Hall. A weak smile was all she could muster, and he countered that with a tiny smile of his own. His eyes then flicked away and refused to meet hers for the remainder of the meal; his tiny smile, however, did remain, much her Hermione's delight.

~

Slipping into the Wing later that evening after dinner for her appointment with Madam Pomfrey, Hermione found that Draco was already there. She’d wanted to meet him on neutral ground, so to speak, and figured that he’d once again like to see the babies through a Magical Ultrasound, so she’d asked him here.   
After an awkward hello, and before either could say anything further, the Healer bustled out of a partitioned area and beckoned Hermione. Draco caught the look of surprise at seeing him before the Healer’s professional mask was firmly set in place.   
“Mr. Malfoy, you look ill. How do you feel?” she asked sternly.   
“I’m just tired, Madam Pomfrey. Just getting less sleep than usual with the end-of-term exams looming, you see,” Draco replied stoically. The Healer frowned, but let it go.   
Once Hermione was comfortable and partially undressed, Pomfrey performed diagnostic spells over Hermione’s entire body. “Have you been under any stress recently, Miss Granger?”   
“Why? What’s wrong?” Draco asked.  
“Miss Granger’s blood pressure is up slightly from last here last appointment. It’s probably not worrisome, but I’ll recheck it in a few minutes. For now, just try to relax, Hermione, and we’ll have a look at the babies,” she said smiling.   
The Magical Ultrasound again transfixed the teens. Both Draco and Hermione commented on how much more they looked like human babies.   
“Do you want to know the genders or are you still wanting to wait?” Pomfrey asked. The glint in her eye made Draco think that she was excited to tell the soon-to-be-mother, and the look of apprehension on Hermione’s face told him that she was considering not waiting. In the end, Hermione shook her head.  
Neither teen missed the look of disappointment on the Healer’s face, though Pomfrey only gave a curt nod.  
“Well, then,” Pomfrey said as she manipulated the image of the life inside of Hermione’s womb so that it rotated for a four dimension view, “My diagnostic charms indicate that the blood flow to the babies has decreased slightly. The second reading I just took on your blood pressure reveals that yours is elevated. Your higher blood pressure leads to less blood flow to the placentas and, therefore, to the babies.”  
After all that Hermione had learned about blood pressure from when Draco was near death, she was worried immediately.  
“Now, no need to get more upset, Hermione,” Pomfrey scolded gently, laying her hand on Hermione’s. “You need to stay relaxed. That means no extreme physical stress or….emotional….upheavals,” she said, giving Hermione a pointed look first and Draco a much more stern look second.   
Draco would have scowled if he weren’t too worried to do so. The teens both nodded.   
“You need to not let the stress of exams affect you in these last weeks of the term, Hermione, and I’ll need to see you back here in a few days.”

~

The early June weather was surprisingly nice, even at night, and Hermione was eager to get out of the Castle. She was nervous and felt uncomfortably warm after the appointment with Madam Pomfrey, and she knew that a leisurely walk around the lovely grounds of Hogwarts would do her (and the twins) good, and even more so as the sun was in it’s final stages of setting, creating a peaceful—and romantic—glow upon them.  
“Did you open your gift?” Hermione asked timidly.  
Draco shot his elusive, handsome smile at her (though the dark bags under his eyes made him look positively ghastly) and pulled her gift out of his robe pocket. As he twirled it between his long, nimble, Seeker fingers, Hermione timidly asked, “Do you know what it is?”  
Draco nodded. “I’ve used one before. In Muggle London. But I’ve never seen one this….elegant.”  
Hermione knew that he must like it to describe it so, and her heart fluttered in satisfaction. “Most pens are plain….and cheap….and aren’t monogramed. Neither do they have an Ink-Replenishing Charm cast on them,” she said with forced calm.   
“It’s brilliant, Hermione,” Draco ventured quietly with a timid smile of his own. “Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome, Draco. Happy Birthday,” she said sincerely. They continued walking, aimlessly, in silence, until Draco spoke.  
“I’ve been in desperate need of a gift like this—what with all of the writing I’ve been doing,” Draco said stoically, his customary mask in place. Hermione looked at him blankly, and Draco asked, “Perhaps you have misplaced all of your writing implements? Or have you misplaced your journal?”   
Hermione stopped in her tracks. “Have you been writing to me through our journals?” Draco nodded.   
He’d been trying to contact me this whole time! she thought with bittersweet emotion.  
“Oh….Draco, I did misplace my journal! I haven’t seen it in weeks! I’m so sorry!”  
Draco’s heart felt ten ton lighter and he let out a breath in relief. She hadn’t been ignoring me!  
“I forgive you,” he uttered sincerely. “Do you forgive me?”  
Becoming misty-eyed again, Hermione nodded fervently. “Your note was incredibly, supremely lovely, Draco,” she gushed.   
Draco just nodded, though Hermione saw the ends of his mouth turn up a smidge. He reached into his robe and pulled out a wrapped, rectangular box. Handing it to Hermione, he said, “It should be a new journal, I suppose—I’ll replace that soon—but it’s something a lot better—or, at least, I hope you think so.”  
Hermione thought Draco’s nervousness was cute. “Why, exactly, am I getting a gift on your birthday?” she asked with a raised brow as she led Draco towards the greenhouses.  
“I’ve been planning to get that for you for….quite some time,” he said before clearing his throat. His adam’s apple bobbed, and Hermione realized just how thin his neck and the rest of him was since being injured with Sectum Sempra. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes as she regretted ignoring Draco for the past two weeks.   
Draco gently pulled her to sit next to him on a small boulder. “I had planned to present it to you after the babies’ births, but….I,” Draco cleared his throat again, “I wanted you to have it now.”   
“That’s….just….” Hermione’s heart thudded against her breastbone, which apparently made her brain stop working because she couldn’t form any words.  
“Please, open it?” Draco requested. Hermione nodded and then gasped upon lifting the lid from the box. It was jewelry that appeared to be a necklace or another choker.   
It was exquisite.   
The pendant was a polished, colorless, clear-as-crystal stone in a gold setting. It was large; just the stone itself was about the size of a galleon. Around the stone was a delicate filigree pattern in which Mother of Pearl was inlaid. Two gold, diamond cut, Singapore twist chains anchored the pendant, each ending with a clasp.   
“This stone is called Goshenite. The primary reason I chose it for you is because it’s a symbol of motherhood.”  
Slightly let down by the meaning behind the beautiful stone, Hermione just nodded before chiding herself for her ungrateful attitude.   
What were you hoping for—a symbol of his everlasting love for you?  
Hermione fingered the stone and its setting for a long minute before finally looking up to Draco. She had already had tears lingering in the corners of her eyes, now had wet cheeks. “It’s beautiful—stunning, actually. You shouldn’t have—you needn’t have—I really shouldn’t acc—”   
She was stopped short of scolding him by Draco’s finger on her lips. He slowly moved toward her, wearing an expression of intent and content at the same time. “It is a crystal that aids in discerning the truth about one’s self and the truthfulness of others. It is a talisman for those who seek valuable, rare objects hidden among other less-valuable cast-offs and rubbish….the diamonds in the rough, you might say.”  
Draco gave Hermione a pointed look, and she noticed a faint blush on his pale, patrician face. “It is also a stone that is good for the student and the researcher,” (here he gave her another pointed look, and she let out a small laugh), “and the adventurer. It’s the perfect stone for you because its properties help in calming tendencies to blindly charge ahead,” Draco said, now displaying a gigantic smirk—no pointed look necessary.   
Hermione swatted his arm, playfully scolding him, but smiled. Draco reached out for the hand that had swatted him and captured it in his own—not so hard as to keep it if Hermione did not approve of his action, but a grip that displayed intent nonetheless. Hermione did approve, much to his delight and relief.  
“It is also said to encourage fidelity, loyalty, and respect. Goshenite represents an ancient goddess who is depicted throughout history as either a snake or a dragon.” Draco, though he was visibly exhausted and in poor health, was positively glowing, exhibiting his most cheeky of expressions.   
Hermione laughed. “I need something to remind me of snakes and dragons, do I? Whatever for?” she jested. Draco gave her a faux frown, making Hermione giggle.   
When she sobered, Draco told her that he designed the new necklace to be worn with the choker, and as he attached the two, his fingers sensually ghosted over her clavicles. Then his thumbs brushed across her cheek, his palms cupping her jaw and his fingers in her hair.   
Staring into Hermione’s eyes, he said, “This has been my best birthday since….” A mischievous gleam shone in his eyes before he smirked and said, “since my twelfth birthday—when father gave me enough racing brooms to ‘buy my way onto the Slytherin Quidditch Team’.”   
Incredulous, Hermione sputtered and laughed heartily at Draco’s cheek and the memory of her insulting him after he had insulted her friends. Together they laughed at their past before they sealed the present with a deep kiss as the sun finally set.

~

To whom did Pomfrey intend to send a flying letter, hmmmm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! I hope and pray that you're staying well and in your home and away from illness!


	19. Chapter 19

-June 5, 1997 (Draco’s birthday, continued)

The deep kiss that Hermione and Draco had shared quickly tumbled into a snog fest, but when the snogging reached the point where continuing would lead to more intimate touching than they were both ready for, they reluctantly tore their lips apart from one another’s.

_Sorcerer’s stones!_ Draco hadn’t felt elation like this in ages. “Nearly two weeks was definitely too long to go without kissing you,” Draco breathed.

Hermione nodded with exuberance. Neither witch nor wizard registered the darkening, cloudy sky above them. Nuzzling his nose into her mass of curls, Draco inhaled deeply before releasing a sigh of pure contentment. One of Hermione’s hands lay on the nape of his neck, and her fingers teased the short hairs there.

“Draco?” Hermione quietly said, bringing him out of his thoughts, “I need to tell you something, but please promise to not get too upset, alright?”

Reluctantly, Draco pulled his face out of her hair and sat up on the hard boulder, futilely attempting to become comfortable. He nodded saying, “As long as you promise not to get upset. You heard what Pomfrey said about your blood pressure and ‘emotional upheaval.’”

Hermione laughed at Draco’s high-pitched imitation of Pomfrey (and at his scowl thereafter) before she explained. “Well, Harry knows that you know that I’m pregnant….and that we are together.”

That information was not as bad as the possible options for topics (such as what Potter had overheard him say before they dueled) that had been running through his mind. He let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “Is that why he used Sectum Sempra on me?” he asked.

Hermione huffed. “No—he did that because you used the Cruciatus on him!”

_Well, I DID do that_ , Draco thought. “Right, well, do you trust that he will keep us a secret?” Draco managed to say it without malice, though it took much restraint on his part; he would not get his pregnant girlfriend upset if he could help it.

“Of course!” she scoffed. “He’s just as invested in concealing my relationship with you as your mother is in hiding yours with me.”

_Still a little touchy about that. Good to know,_ Draco told himself. After a moment’s pause, he declared arrogantly, “Alright, well, I say Potter and I are even, then.”

“Draco,” Hermione whined.

“Mione,” Draco whined back as he bumped his shoulder against hers, getting a lip quirk out of her. Grinning in return, he decided that, now that she was in a slightly better mood (and appeared calm, which probably correlated with a healthy blood pressure, he surmised), he could broach the topic he’d been planning to discuss tonight—and he’d need to do so carefully so as not to elevate, her blood pressure with any ‘emotional upheaval,’ as Pomfrey had dubbed it. He had an urge to be completely honest with her and tell her the whole, sordid Polyjuice fiasco; tell her that Crabbe and Goyle sold Polyjuice Potion that he had stolen; and tell her that he failed his task to prevent blokes from getting too close to her. But, tonight, and for the foreseeable future because of her condition, he couldn’t.

Draco sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Listen, Hermione—”

A sudden, loud clap of thunder interrupted him. Both teens startled and gasped at the unanticipated sound as pellets of water immediately beat down on them.

“Draco, would you help me off of this rock, please?”

Draco jumped up, and once he’d assisted Hermione to her feet, he began to lead her toward the Castle. Hermione, however, pulled him in the other direction as she stepped carefully so as not to slip and fall on the wet and rocky ground.

“Hermione, the Castle?” Draco whined.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to go to the Castle.”

“Hermione, standing under a tree is not the best thing for us to be doing right now,” Draco pointed out, even as he allowed himself to be lead, not about to release her and risk her falling.

“It’s hardly the tallest thing around here,” she replied with a pointed glance to the Castle that loomed high above them. “If you come this way, you can avoid the branches.”

Stopping them at the closest point to the tree at which he still considered them safe, Draco hollered over the pelting rain and clapping thunder. “Do you have a death wish, witch?”

Hermione smiled weakly at the moniker he used for her—she loved him calling her ‘witch’ (a far cry from ‘Mudlbood’)—but she ignored him and muscled him to the tree. He trusted her, so he allowed it.

To Draco’s surprise, Hermione was able to avoid getting them assaulted by the Whomping Willow. His awe increased as she touched a specific knot in the trunk, causing the tree to become still.

After pushing away some overgrown grass, which revealed a hole at the base of the tree, Hermione said, “Get in.” When she saw Draco’s dubiousness, she added with a tiny smile, “I’ve been in there before. So have Harry and Ronald.”

Draco’s jaw set and he promptly did as he was bid (just as Hermione knew he would), sliding into the hole feet first before turning to help Hermione into the burrow beneath the tree.

~

Trekking through the underground tunnel, the illumination from their lit wands providing sight to only two-or-so meters in front of them, was no easy (or pleasant) feat. Draco had half a mind to force Hermione to return with him above ground, but he was too curious to insist upon it. The possibility of discovering a passage from the Hogwarts grounds to somewhere off grounds was too tempting for Draco to pass up; the stakes were too high.

When the tunnel finally spat them out, it took him all of two seconds to realize where he and Hermione were. “Hermione, why are we in a haunted house? The ghosts here are purported to be insane and extremely horrendous!”

Hermione, who had already begun performing spells, removing dust and cobwebs from the area into which the tunnel deposited them, stopped to stare at him. “Oh,” she said, knocked for six at her own forgetfulness; the truth about the Shrieking Shack had never been revealed to the public after the incidents of their third year. “Well, there never were ghosts here! It was all rumors and—well—a werewolf and his Animagi friends.”

His eyes went wide for a moment until he looked quizzically at her. “Lupin?”

Hermione nodded as she resumed her spellwork. Draco scowled as he used drying charms on Hermione and himself, thereafter performing cleaning charms to remove dirt and a multitude of cobwebs from their bodies.

Presently, Hermione took him by the hand and led him down the hall.

“Who else knows about the secret entrance to this place?” he asked coolly as he dodged a disconcertingly large spider web.

“Oh. Uh, well, Harry, Ronald, and Professor Lupin, of course….Professor Snape, Professor Dumbledore—I’m sure—and….Peter Pettigrew.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up (though Hermione didn’t notice as her back was to him). _Snape and Pettigrew, huh?_

They entered into what appeared to be a drawing room—one that was, like the rest of the shack, in shambles except for some old (but obviously once-opulent) furnishings.

“Snape?” he asked.

She walked to the fireplace and wordlessly spelled Blue Flames to appear in the fireplace’s grate before nodding. “Third Year—the same time I was here.”

Draco made a face of disbelief, but then, when he had her attention, he wagged his eyebrows and said lasciviously, “What were you and Snape doing here together?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Eww. Don’t imply things like that!” Then she laughed. “It was all purely platonic, I assure you! Professor Snape followed Professor Lupin, who was following Harry, Ronald, your cousin, Sirius, and me, here.”

Anxious to have Hermione in his arms again, Draco located a sofa and magically enlarged it before repositioning it in front of the fire. Several rounds of cleaning charms by the two of them were needed before they deemed it fit to sit on; Hermione scooted onto the sofa and up against its back, laying lengthwise, and Draco followed suit, laying on his side with his back to the Blue Flames. Their hands touched each other’s as they mingled on Hermione’s bump.

“So….the Shrieking Shack, hmm?” Draco asked.

“Yeeees,” Hermione ventured warily, noticing the naughty glint to his eyes.

After a dramatic pause, he said, “I’m just surprised that you’ve brought me to Weasley’s dream home.”

Hermione laughed and playfully swatted a grinning Draco. “You were such a bully that day, teasing Ronald about this place being more luxurious than his family’s home!” she exclaimed.

Draco guffawed. “Please! What I said was just good fun! Have you forgotten that in second year, The Weasel King meant for me to be coughing up _slugs_ for hours? I would have been, too, if his wand hadn’t malfunctioned!”

They both laughed at that memory until they cried, and then Hermione said, “Come on, admit it: you teased Ron and me about us shopping for our dream home together that day because you were jealous of him,” Hermione taunted. She knew that there was no truth to her suggestion, but she couldn’t help teasing him about it regardless.

Draco couldn’t hide his embarrassment over his former prejudice against her, and Hermione laughed. “You’re dishy when you’re embarrassed. Did you know?” she asked, her hand coming up to play with his too-long hair that frequently fell into his eyes.

“That’s why you and I make such a good pair,” Draco quipped, his fingers making patterns on her belly and his eyes closed, relishing in her touch. He couldn’t help but recall the steamy fantasies that he’d had of late that had included her bare belly.

Hermione took a look around them and, after a few quiet moments, mused, “I’m surprised this place hasn’t been purchased and renovated; this place could easily be fixed up with Magic. And it could not possibly cost much to purchase. It would probably be a very good investment,” she ventured as she poked Draco’s sternum, “especially for a Weasley.”

Draco’s fingers stilled; he’d heard her joke, but the idea that had just occurred to him prevented any witty reply.

They laid in silence, Draco contemplating several possibilities until he nonchalantly stated, “I came into my Black Family inheritance today.”

“Oh?” Hermione replied, a bit blindsided by the change in topic.

Draco nodded proudly. “Yes, and I’m going to be purchasing this place,” he said.

Hermione snorted. “Why?”

“Well, for many reasons. It’s close to Hogwarts, but it’s away from the village, and it has it’s own secret way into the school grounds! It’s a perfect place for you to house the twins after they’re born—if need be.”

Hermione’s heart leapt and then sank and then leapt again, and her stomach couldn’t make up it’s mind, either. “But—but,” she stammered, “Isn’t that, um, jumping the gun, a bit?”

Draco still looked confused. “What is a ‘gun’?”

“Muggle weapon. Not important,” Hermione uttered before trying again. “I mean to say, isn’t that putting the cart before the horse just a smidge?”

Draco’s expression didn’t change.

Frustrated by her poor communication skills at the moment, she impatiently said, “I mean, wouldn’t it be more prudent to wait to purchase a property until you actually know that it’s needed?”

Draco immediately shook his head. “I want a place where you and I can be together this summer.”

Hermione frowned. “You’re welcome in my parents’ home, you know?”

“That means a lot to me,” was his polite reply before he stated, “but I’ll be taking the Apparation Exam soon, so I will be able to apparate to anywhere from the Manor—as you can from your home. This is as good a place as any for us to meet—superior, actually, as it’s private. It would be a ideal hide out.” _If I pay the town of Hogsmeade enough to keep my proprietorship of this place hush-hush,_ he thought, certain that it wouldn’t be difficult.

The way Draco had said ‘hide out’ gnawed at Hermione’s curiosity. “ _Hide out_?”

She saw Draco’s eyes lose their gleam of excitement. “Our relationship has to remain hidden—”

“I know,” she interrupted, frowning.

“—as does your pregnancy and the fact that you were raped—”

“Why are we reiterating this, exactly?” Hermione posited testily.

Internally, Draco groaned, but externally he just took in a deep breath. “Mione, I’m reiterating all of this because of that which we really haven’t discussed. Whoever raped you went to extremes to look like me. I’m sure that he counted on you reporting me as your rapist, Hermione. He wanted to see me heading to Azkaban—or worse,” he said, contemplating (and not for the first time) that the foul reprobate had raped Hermione and planned destruction—perhaps death, if the Dark Lord had found out what Draco had supposedly done—for him.

Sitting up taller, alarm diffused throughout Hermione’s features. “And I would have reported you, too, if it hadn’t been for Harry telling me it wasn’t really you!” Truly not having had worked this out before on her own, it was a startling revelation. Luck ( _not fate,_ she thought) seemed to be on her and Draco’s side, at least.

Draco, scowling at the thought that Potter had saved him (AGAIN!), realized that he should probably be grateful to Potter—or (and he liked this better), that, at the least, he could justify them as being _definitely_ even.

“So,” he continued, “there’s a person or persons out there who has the knowledge that you could be pregnant and the means and intent to bring me down; ergo, a hide out—a….safe house….may be necessary.”

Reluctantly, Hermione nodded, and he said, “I’m going to buy this place, Hermione, and if the time comes when you need to go into hiding, then this can be a refuge for you. All right? Tell me you will, Mione, please?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hermione agreed.

~

For hours, under blankets transfigured from their cloaks, they cuddled together on the enlarged sofa, though to get comfortable, it took some cushioning charms and periodic position changes, as well as transfiguring their clothes into loungewear. Magically, Hermione even ditched her bra, no stripping needed; she loved being a witch! They interspersed their conversations with snogging or innocent pecks and caresses.

Midnight was fast approaching when the two overworked and under-rested teens felt the pull to sleep. Upon Draco’s return from a trip to the loo (the plumbing in the Shack didn’t work, but, thanks to magic, ridding the toilet of excrement was not an issue), Hermione sleepily asked, “What do you see yourself doing after Hogwarts?”

Draco, climbing back onto the sofa, looked eager to answer for a moment before he shrugged, saying, “Working in the Ministry is expected of me by my father.”

“But is that what you’d like to do? I mean, if you could do anything—which I assume you could due to your wealth—what would you choose?”

Before he could say anything, however, Hermione playfully said, “Oh, I’m so daft! I should have known—Professional Quidditch,” with a tiny wrinkle in her nose.

She looked so cute to Draco then, and her distaste for Quidditch was so strong and perplexing to him that he had to chuckle at her. “I’d love to be a Professional Seeker—which is my goal right out of Hogwarts—but I have no illusions about it being a long-term career. Most Quidditch careers are roughly a decade long—if one is lucky.”

“Alright, so after Quidditch?” Hermione pressed, smiling.

Draco seemed bashful to Hermione all of a sudden—and he _was_. He had never given an honest answer to this question before—except to his mother, who sympathized but was powerless to do something about the fact that Draco’s dream career would not be an option.

He swallowed thickly and said, “I’d love to be a Professional Pianist or Violinist and a Composer.”

His answer was definitely not anything that Hermione had expected, but she quickly smiled and nodded. “You’d be brilliant!”

Draco ducked his face in embarrassment, but said, “Yeah, well, I’d like to write music and lyrics, but I’m shite—terrible, I mean—apologies, Mione—at lyrics. Whenever I try to write them, I just….don’t know what to write.” He shrugged, though his nonchalance belied his dissatisfaction with the issue.

After a moment’s contemplation, Hermione responded. “I’m sure that, after some life experience as an adult, you’ll find plenty to say,” she offered, the ideations of true love—THEIR love—inspiring Draco’s life’s work floating around in her hormone-soaked brain.

“And you?” Draco asked, looking at her through his lashes. “Besides being a mum, of course,” he added with a smirk and an affectionate caress of the bump.

Hermione’s breath hitched. “I….I’m not sure, yet. I think that I, too, need some adult experiences to figure that out, but I like the idea of writing a book.”

Draco nodded, stroking her abdomen in soothing caresses and feeling for movement and trying to discern baby body parts through Hermione’s taught muscles. As he did so, brown eyes watched his hands and ogled his handsome features. Gorgeous grey eyes periodically flitted to the brown before retreating again. He was nervous; never before had Draco been as open and honest as he was about to be. Because of her charmed choker and his musical charms that connected it to his wand, he knew how she felt, though, and that was the only thing bolstering his current spark of bravery.

Intently gazing at his own hands, he said, “Hermione?”

“Mmm hmm?” She saw Draco take a deep breath in.

“I think that….I love you, Mione,” he asserted, finally meeting her eyes after his confessional words were spoken.

_WELL_! A confession of love was not something she expected to hear! After three seconds of silence, Draco, in a rush, added, “I understand if you don’t feel the—”

“I think—I love you, too,” she whispered back as she blushed fiercely, meeting his eyes, where she saw joy ignite before it suffused the rest of his features. Grinning broadly, he pulled her into him tightly (as close as they could get with two unborn babies between them). They grasped each other firmly—passionately—and they both leaned in. The kiss started chastely, shyly; it quickly evolved into much more.

“Say you love me?” he requested minutes later.

Hermione giggled. “I did.”

“Say it again,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. She melted at his tone.

Running her hands through his white blond, baby-fine hair (and he, in turn, raking his hands through her soft, coconut-scented curls), she shyly said, “Draco….I love you.”

He heard him make a throaty noise that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of contentment.

“I love you, my Mione,” he replied before planting a kiss to her lips. “Thank you for making this the best birthday I’ve ever had.” He then captured her lips in a kiss once more.

When they exhausted themselves from yet another round of kissing, they succumbed to sleep; neither one felt inclined to return to the Castle for the night. They lay together, each cuddled in the arms of the person they most loved.

~

**10 house points if you knew where Hermione was leading Draco before I stated it! ;)**


	20. Chapter 20

The twenty-five days since Draco's birthday passed quickly for both Draco and Hermione; Hermione was busy with revisions and researching the 'half-blood prince,' while Draco was trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet.

Two days after Draco's birthday, a school owl had delivered a new journal to Hermione; it was identical to her lost journal. In the new journal was a note from Draco explaining that the new journal, and not her first one, was coupled to his now. The messages that Draco had sent in the previous two weeks had gone to her old journal, and, although this was slightly concerning, Hermione had had the foresight to password-protect the first journal when she first received it. Hermione and Draco had been communicating daily—a poor substitution for being with each other, they both felt, but a comfort (especially for Draco) nonetheless.

Hermione had gone alone to her now-weekly appointments with Pomfrey. As of the morning of June thirtieth, at her latest check up, her blood pressure was still elevated, but it was not increasing, she had no other concerning symptoms, and the twins were still healthy. So, later that night, when Harry asked her and Ron to keep watch while he left with Dumbledore, Hermione was able to promise she would.

That was how she found herself in the dungeons with Luna Lovegood, staking out the corridor in which Professor Snape's office and quarters were located. Hermione hadn't known if the D.A. members still had their Protean-charmed galleons, but she'd hoped that those members who were still at Hogwarts would respond; of all of those, only Luna and Neville had responded to her summons.

Hermione, glum and disappointed in her fellow Army members, was half-listening to Luna's thoughts on the subject, until she heard Cho Chang's name.

"Cho? Why would Cho answer the call? She's not here any longer," snapped Hermione, irritated that Luna, a Ravenclaw, would not have realized that the Head Girl (and fellow Ravenclaw) had left school weeks ago.

"She's got her galleon," Luna serenely said. "And as part of the Order, I'd imagine she'd answer the summons."

Hermione was flummoxed. _When had Cho joined the Order?_

As though Luna had read her mind, she said, "Cho joined the order when she turned seventeen. That's what she left school early for—didn't you know?" She seemed surprised, as if Cho's disappearance were common knowledge.

Hermione had thought that Cho had left because of her son, Cedric. "I thought…." Hermione began before remembering that she'd promised Cho that she would keep Baby Cedric's existence a secret.

Luna nodded knowingly. "It was not only because of Little Cedric. His arrival hastened Cho's departure, but she was always planning to work for the Order after Hogwarts. Ever since Cedric Diggory was murdered by You-Know-Who, she has wanted to avenge him."

Hermione's head was spinning, trying to make sense of this new information.

Luna continued. "She'll be here, I'm sure," Luna placidly said as she twirled her pale blonde hair around her wand.

"But….but—Baby Cedric," Hermione sputtered.

"Oh," said Luna, tilting her head as if contemplating something new. "He'll be with Mrs. McLaggen, I suppose."

_McLaggen?_

"Cormac's….mother?" Hermione ventured, still reeling from what she'd just heard.

Luna nodded. "Mmm-hmm. That's where Cho's been living….because Cho's parents didn't understand."

Not knowing the whole story was making Hermione go barmy. Clearly frustrated and impatient, she said, "Luna, what are you on about? Tell me what has been going on!"

Luna tilted her head again, appraising Hermione (which only added to the brunette's frustration and impatience). "I thought you would have known," she mused.

Hermione fumed. "Luna—"

"It's a closely guarded secret. How Cormac knew, I'm not sure, but Cho didn't hesitate to give it a go. Missing Cedric—Diggory, that is—for so long like she did….I guess she just couldn't resist the opportunity."

Hermione huffed. "Luna Lovegood, you—"

Whatever Hermione was going to say was forgotten as the sound of rapid footfalls reached her ears. The two witches turned toward the sound, Luna springing to her feet and reaching out a hand to assist Hermione to stand. Hermione gratefully accepted the help, but eyed the blonde warily afterward.

Professor Flitwick ran past them to Snape's door, banging on the door with all of his might and hollering for Snape. The girls followed. When the door finally opened, Flitwick rushed past Professor Snape, who quickly shut the door behind the minute professor.

Not even a minute later, the door reopened and Snape grunted, "Come in! Quickly!"

The girls ran into the office, their eyes landing on the form of Professor Flitwick, laying on the cold, stone floor.

"He's fainted," clipped Snape, who was throwing his cloak over his shoulders. "Stay with him while I go investigate his claims." At the door, he turned sharply and, looking at Hermione, added, "Remain calm." And with that, the office door closed behind Snape.

After a bewildered silence, the girls each took to performing a Cushioning Charm on the floor under their Charms Professor and summoning a blanket for him. That done, Hermione now had only worry to occupy her mind.

_Had Harry been right about something horrible happening tonight?_

Her first instinct was to check the Marauder's Map—but Ron and Ginny had taken it with them tonight. Instead, she ran to the door, jerking the handle before stumbling backward; the door was locked.

"Alohamora!" Nothing. She tried the only other door-unlocking spell she knew. Nothing.

 _Remain calm. Remain calm,_ she told herself. Snape was right; she had to stay calm for the twins' health. She wondered if he knew about her elevated blood pressure.

Regaining a little clarity, she fished her D.A. galleon from her pocket and sent a message: 'Locked in SS office'.

After waiting nearly ten minutes for a reply that never came, she searched her beaded bag for her journal. If she had that, she could send a message to Draco. Maybe he could get her out! And with Snape gone from the dungeons, there was no adult to protect the Slytherins, and she was becoming worried for them. After a search (that had quickly become frantic) of her bag, she realized that she'd left her journal in her room.

With a defeated sigh, she sunk into her professor's desk chair and put her feet up on his desk. Her feet were so tired. Longingly, she eyed the tattered, old, sofa by the fireplace, only resisting because she knew that if she laid down, she'd surely fall asleep, and she did not want to do that while her friends were probably facing something nefarious somewhere above her in the castle.

"Hermione, have you figured out who Little Cedric's father is?" Luna asked off-handedly.

Hermione startled; she'd forgotten the blonde was in the room. "No. You?"

"Of course," Luna replied. "Cedric Diggory."

_Blonde's finally gone barmy._

Hermione scoffed. "Cedric Diggory? He's been dead for two years, Luna. It's probably Michael Corner," she said dismissively, rapping her fingers on the desk to combat her boredom and her annoyance with the blonde, and to satisfy her need to keep busy.

"It's a rare thing, it's true, to conceive a child posthumously," she said dreamily. "Quite romantic, if you ask me."

Hermione's fingers stilled and her jaw dropped, but Luna didn't notice.

"The truly miraculous thing is that Cho still had a hair of Cedric's after all of these years. She found it on his scarf that he'd given her to wear at the last TriWizard event."

_Hair?_

Mind racing and heart pounding suddenly, Hermione calmly removed her feet from Professor Snape's desk. Gripping the armrests tightly, she took a deep breath.

"Hair?" she murmured. "Cedric Diggory's hair?"

Luna nodded. "Yes. It was in the Polyjuice Potion that Cormac used to get Cho pregnant."

Nervous energy forced Hermione to stand. She started to pace. "He raped her!?" she cried. "But….but….she told me that she wasn't…."

Luna stood and slowly approached Hermione, putting a hand on her shoulder; the action stopped Hermione physically and mentally. "Come to the sofa, Hermione. You need to sit down."

Nodding, Hermione allowed Luna (who was almost skipping) to lead her to the sofa. Hermione sat against the arm of the sofa, and Luna sat at the other end, with her legs twisted like a pretzel, facing Hermione.

"Feet up," said the blonde, patting her legs. Warily, Hermione lugged her legs up onto the length of the sofa, her feet resting on Luna's folded legs. With her wand, Luna removed Hermione's shoes and socks. Hermione's protestations were effectively halted when Luna began massaging her feet.

"Now, where were we? Oh, yes! Cho purposely became pregnant by way of Cedric's hair and Cormac's attentions," Luna said with a completely straight face.

"Cormac's….Cedric's…." Hermione said, her mind working furiously. "Cormac looked like Cedric Diggory when he impregnated Cho, and so that makes Cedric Diggory the father of Baby Cedric? No—that can't be true."

 _That can't be_ , she thought dejectedly.

"Cho's baby's father is Cedric Diggory, Hermione," Luna affirmed, speaking gently. "It's because of the change in the genes that happens when one ingests Polyjuice. Cho explained it all to me; Cormac explained it to her, but I'm still not sure how Cormac came to learn of it."

_I can't—I shouldn't—believe it; b_ _ut, oh, how I want to believe it!_

She'd fantasized about it...about Draco being the actual guy she'd slept with (willingly!)….about her giving her first time to him….and even about him being the twins' father.

_It would be perfect!_

"I need a book!" she screeched, starting to get up.

"No! Stay put," Luna bid. "I'll find one; it should be easy, considering whose office we are in."

After a cursory check on the Charms Professor (who remained unconscious), Luna searched the extensive office library of their Potions Professor. She'd found a few titles that looked promising before her search led her to the professor's desk. Hermione watched as Luna picked up a tome on top of a pile and then as her mouth opened in surprise.

"I believe this will be the one," Luna said, bringing it right to Hermione, whose eyes widened to a size that rivaled the blonde's as she read the title of the tome. "The Effects of Polyjuice Potion: A Study Utilizing Muggle Methods."

Hermione nodded excitedly and began reading.

'… _.The effects that Polyjuice Potion has on the body may be most significant to the field of Magical Law Enforcement. Using Polyjuice Potion is an uncommon but favored method among criminals as it enables the perpetrator of a crime to leave genetic information, also known as DNA (Deoxyribonucleic acid), belonging to another person at the scene of the crime….'_

'…. _The hair in Polyjuice Potion contains DNA, which is the carrier of genetic information for Muggles and Wizards alike. When Polyjuice Potion is ingested, the DNA of the ingester is transformed to be the exact DNA match of the person whose hair was used in the potion….'_

'… _.Effects on the ingester last until his or her body has metabolized (broken down into individual components) the Polyjuice. Effects last longer or shorter, depending upon the rate at which the ingester's body metabolizes. After metabolism, the ingester's DNA returns to normal….'_

'… _.The effects of Polyjuice on DNA also has implications in human conception. All cells are affected by Polyjuice, and so their DNA will, therefore, revert back to normal after metabolism. The one exception is this: sperm cells that leave the body of the ingester before metabolism occurs will NOT return to normal….'_

As she read, Hermione's hands caressed her bump—her bump, in which there existed two humans, each forming according to a mix of genetic material from her body and Draco's. This was the stuff of dreams, she thought; but, as far a DNA was concerned, it was real.

"Here, Hermione. I made tea," Hermione heard Luna say. Robotically, Hermione took the cup and sipped before once again succumbing to her thoughts.

_My babies are not the bastard children of some unknown man! They are not no-names; they are Malfoys!_

Hermione started to shiver.

"I'll get a blanket for you, Hermione," Hermione vaguely heard Luna say.

_Malfoys. My children's grandfather is Lucius Malfoy, Muggleborn-hater extraordinaire and notorious Death Eater!_

She had no doubt that Lucius Malfoy would kill her and the babies if he were to find out! Draco's mother already thought that had Draco fathered her child, and not even she believed that her husband should be informed of that 'fact'. For good reason!

_Right, so before I tell Draco that I'm having his babies, I have to know with absolute certainty that he will not tell his father and that he would choose his children over his parents._

'Draco's already been as keen as you have been to keeping the twins a secret. You can trust him with this knowledge, too,' said her rational self.

_But perhaps keeping his children—his REAL children, not the fictitious child he lied to his mother about—secret from his parents—his flesh and blood—would prove too much for him?_

'His children are his flesh and blood, too.'

Worries of how Draco was likely to react came next.

 _It's been obvious that he cares for me, but he just turned seventeen years old—he's barely a man! Getting his mind wrapped around this convolution would be no easy task, and then if he were able to accept it, he may turn his back on the twins and me….or just me._ _Would he try to take the babies away from me to live with him and his parents, passing them off as his pureblood children birthed by a pureblood witch?_

Suddenly, all of the elation she'd felt about her babies being Draco's babies, too, melted away. Tears sprung to her eyes, her breathing hitched as her chest constricted tightly, and she bit back the urge to sob. She was so frustrated, confused, resentful, and afraid—afraid of making the wrong choice, of screwing with the Prophecy, of losing the twins, and of losing Draco. She stood to let out her nervous energy.

 _Maybe I just shouldn't tell him,_ she postulated as she paced around Snape's office, wringing her hands. _I could accept his offer to keep the twins safe and hidden and together with me. We could all be together—a family in all but name!_

Her ever-reliable conscience mentally slapped her; she wasn't a paragon of honesty and integrity for nothing. Just contemplating deceiving Draco, after they had slowly built a surreally wonderful relationship, made her feel beyond atrocious. She couldn't lie to Draco about this, even if it were a lie of omission. She had to be truthful.

" _I'd take responsibility,"_ he'd told her once. _"Especially if I had feelings for the mother."_

Both then and now, her heart and soul believed that statement. Those parts of her believed (though her brain was still undecided) in the dream; they wanted the 'Happily Ever After _.'_ The twins would have her and their father; they—the four of them—would be a family. She'd have Draco! She could finish at Hogwarts. It would be _right_.

 _Proper_.

 _Perfect_.

Giddy and grinning, she resolved to tell him as soon as possible. She wondered where he was now. In the Room of Hidden Things? In the Dungeons, perhaps on the other side of these very walls?

"It must be a tremendous relief for you to finally know who the father of your babies is," Luna said placidly.

Hermione went slack jawed as she stared at the fair blonde smiling sweetly back at her. Luna seemed to be waiting patiently for Hermione to respond, but Hermione was having trouble finding words. Hermione knew that she had cast a Concealment Charm on her belly this evening before she left her dormitory—so how did Luna even know she was pregnant, let alone that Draco was the father?

"Did you know, Hermione, that my mother was a Seer?"

That did make a world of sense to Hermione, considering how odd Luna could be at times.

Luna took Hermione by the arm and led her back to the sofa, seating herself at Hermione's feet once again. Laying the blanket over Hermione, she said, "She made a very important prophecy that relates to you."

Hermione remained speechless.

"She prophesied to Professor Dumbledore while she was a student here at school. Mother's gift of Sight manifested at quite an early age, you see. The Prophecy Record was in the Hall of Records when we were there last year."

_Last year….Death Eaters…._

A large gasp preceded Hermione asking, "How do you know that? All—any—of that?"

Luna serenely responded, "I was Imperiused that night to remove the Prophecy Record from where it rested on the shelf. While the other Death Eaters were fighting you, Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Neville, Lucius Malfoy compelled me to remove it. I'm sorry."

 _Malfoy_. _Lucius Malfoy_ knew about the Prophecy!

Almost instantly, the scent of lavender hit Hermione's nose; Luna had conjured and was holding fresh lavender in front of Hermione's face.

"Lavender is calming," Hermione vaguely heard Luna telling her. "Breath it in, Hermione, nice and slow. Your twins need you to stay calm and healthy, Hermione. That's it, slow breaths. Do not fear, Hermione; your secrets are safe with me."

The relaxation techniques were mostly effective; the physical signs of Hermione's state of anxiousness diminished; however, Hermione was left wanting—needing—further comfort. She craved Draco's presence….his warm embrace, his comforting words, _his_ scent.

If she only had her journal with her now! she lamented. Then could send a message requesting Draco's help in getting out of Snape's office and she could tell him!

There was _so much_ to tell him.

She gasped when she remembered the one avenue of communication she'd overlooked earlier: her Patronus!

Scrambling to her feet and pulling her wand from her sleeve, she yelled, "Expecto Patronum!"

A silver otter materialized from her wand, playfully slithering around in front of her. With forced calm and careful word choice, she instructed, "Go to Draco Malfoy. Tell him the following: 'Locked in Snape's office. Please come.'"

As the otter disappeared, Hermione returned to the sofa, inhaling the fresh lavender and singing to calm her anxious mind.

 _Come soon, Draco,_ she silently begged. _Your babies and I need you._

~

Author's note: next chapter we will see Hermione learn what Draco had been up to during the events of this chapter, and we will see what he does when he gets Hermione's patronus!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> Disclaimer: i own nothing but my own twist on the brilliant books by JK Rowling, who graciously allows us to play with her characters and universe!


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